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PRESENTLY, THE MILLINER PRESENTED IT TO HER POISED ON HER FIST. 

Page 176. 




{ 


' HENRIETTE 


OR 

A CORSICAN MOTHER 


BY 

FRANCOIS COPPEE 

j n . 


TRANSLATED BY 

EDWARD WAKEFIELD 

I 


ILLUSTRATED 

LIBRARY 

OF THE 

SUP/.COUNCIL, 

80.‘.JURISD1CTI0N* 

NEW YORK 

WORTHINGTON CO., 747 BROADWAY 
1889 


V\e. 


Copyright, 1889, by' 

WORTHINGTON CO. 


E>?chsnae 

of Supreme Council A^3ci^e 

Aug iO, 1940 


Press of J. J. Little & Co., 
Astor Place, New York. 


©ebtcafton 


TO 


:z 


MY DEAR BIOGRAPHER AND FRIEND, 

M. DE LESCURE, 


I DEDICATE VERY AFFECTIONATELY 


THIS SIMPLE STORY 


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CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

FRANgOlS COPPEE. 

CRITICAL NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR g 


CHAPTER I. 

MOURNERS AND WAGERS 27 


CHAPTER II. 

THE widow’s RETROSPECT 35 


CHAPTER III. 

CORSICAN JEALOUSY AND MOTHERLY LOVE. 48 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSEHOLD 


55 


6 


Contents. 


PAGE 

CHAPTER V. 

AT CROSS PURPOSES 65 

CHAPTER VI. 

love’s young dream 71 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE FRUIT OF THE FORBIDDEN TREE 8 1 

CHAPTER VIII. 

“A SUPERIOR officer’s ROOM ” 92 

CHAPTER IX. 

’twixt duty and love 105 

CHAPTER X. 

ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER II9 

CHAPTER XI. 


IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH 1 34 


Co7itents. 


7 


CHAPTER XII. 

✓ 

THE doorkeeper’s LODGE 


CHAPTER XIH. 

RIVALRY AT THE GRAVE 


CHAPTER XIV. 

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH 





PAGE 

145 


158 


175 



J 


rk II 



■ FRANCOIS COPPEE. 

CRITICAL NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR. 

The most popular French writer of recent 
times is undoubtedly ^imile Zola. His works 
run into hundreds of editions and fabulous 
thousands of copies, and the profits from them 
must be enormous. Yet there was a time 
when Zola could not get a hearing at all, and 
when some of these very books which now 
rush through their scores of editions, were a 
dead weight on the booksellers’ shelves. The 
truth is that, apart from his “ realism,” which 
is often called by a harsher term, and which 
absolutely debars him from a large and most 
desirable class of readers, Zola is very heavy. 
His works are a painful and oppressive picture 


Francois Copp^e. 


i6 


of a corrupt and degraded state of society, and 
are none the less repellant from their instinc- 
tive accuracy of detail. 

The public, in fact, were not far wrong in 
their judgment on his early works, and it does 
not say much for the critical taste of the age 
that they changed their mind when Zola 
adopted a style which even French reviewers 
denounced as outrageous until they saw that 
it was going to be successful. Zola’s latest 
works are little less dull, and a great deal 
more indecent, than his earliest ; and there are 
abundant signs that his popularity is on the 
wane. 

Next to Zola comes Alphonse Daudet, with 
a much more legitimate popularity, and one 
which, I imagine, he himself must be much 
prouder of. Zola’s works have been described 
not unjustly as ‘‘a photograph of a dunghill.” 
Daudet’s are not photographs, nor is there 
anything of the dunghill in their subject. 
They are boldly executed crayon drawings 


Franfois Copp^e. 


I T 


of a state of society where lights and shadows 
are both in extremes, and where there is 
ample field for the play of a vivid and deli- 
cate wit. Daudet also, singularly enough, was 
unappreciated at first. In that delightful 
book Trente Ans de Paris, which is neither 
more nor less than his literary autobiography, 
he tells an amusing story of Flaubert, who 
organized a series of Sunday dinners at a 
humble restaurant, called the Riunion des 
auteurs siffles, “the hissed authors’ club.” 
Only thoroughly unsuccessful men were quali- 
fied, and as soon as any member sold a thou- 
sand copies of any work, he was expected to 
leave, whilst a second edition was considered 
altogether fatal. Zola and Daudet were dis- 
tinguished and highly esteemed frequenters of 
this Reunion ; and among these light-hearted 
men of genius, the hopeless failure of their 
own efforts to reach the temple^ of Fame, 
formed a perennial subject of conversation 
and of- banter. Daudet tells us, in an inex- 


12 


Francois Copp^e. 


pressibly comic vein, how uncomfortable be 
felt the first Sunday he dined with his friends 
the auteurs sifflis after he had achieved his 
first moderate success. He says he felt as if 
he were there under false pretences and could 
hardly look Zola or Flaubert in the face. He 
took refuge in deceit, and did his best to con- 
ceal the fact that his book was selling. A few 
weeks later, however, when the first edition 
was sold and a second had been called for, he 
was obliged to make a clean breast of it and 
throw himself on the mercy of his comrades. 
They consented to condone his offence in 
consideration of his many redeeming quali- 
ties ; and he describes with an admirable turn 
of irony how Zola, putting on an almost 
Pharisaical air of self-satisfaction, exclaimed : 
‘‘ Ah ! None of us will ever sell our books.” 
With this cutting remark, the delinquent was 
restored to favor ; but he says he could not 
help feeling that his friends looked upon him 
as a black sheep who could by no means be 



THREE OF THEM CAME AT ONCE, WRAPPED IN HEAVY FUR COATS. 

Page IS9- 



Francois Coppee. 


13 


trusted for the future. It was not long before 
every one of the leading members of the 
“ hissed authors’ club ” took his place among 
the most successful men of letters in Europe. 
The little dinners were speedily transferred 
from the humble restaurant to Flaubert’s now 
luxurious quarters, and there the comrades 
used to meet to congratulate each other on 
their triumphs and to criticise each other’s 
works in the very spirit of open-hearted emu- 
lation. 

Daudet never reached the dizzy pinnacle of 
success which Zola, after long years of heart- 
sickening disappointment, achieved at one 
leap. But having been the first of that bril- 
liant company to attain a wide and a highly 
honorable renown, he has held it Jonger than 
any of them. Latterly, however, he has shown 
signs of having almost worked out his rich 
and varied vein. He has been republishing 
old, neglected or forgotten works ; and that 
may generally be taken to mean that an 


14 


Francis Coppie. 


author is contented with his measure of suc- 
cess, that he is willing to rest on his laurels, 
and that he is not likely to produce much 
more. 

There has been much curiosity as to who 
should be the next to occupy the chief place 
in the favor of the French, who, fickle in all 
else, are by no means so in literature. The 
position is an important one, for there are no 
writers who are so much read by other nations 
as the foremost men among French novelists. 

The name of Franpois Coppie has long been 
famous as that of the author of a number of 
excellent plays, of several series of charming 
contes^ or short stories, and of a volume of 
refined and melodious poetry. It is a maxim 
among the French, that the test of a novelist’s 
and even of a dramatist’s qualifications is his 
capability of saying what he has to say within 
the limits of a short story. It is easy, they 
say, to embellish, to expand, to digress, to 
develop, but the true genius lies in the com- 


N 


Francois Coppie. 


15 


pactness of the leading idea. In one of his 
most finished “ Stories in Prose," Coppee 
makes a famous theatrical manager speak as 
follows : 

“ Anecdote, anecdote, everything is in that. No 
play is really a good one unless you can describe the 
plot in five minutes. Whenever an author comes to 
me whilst I am at breakfast, to talk about a new piece, 
I stop him at once : — Will you have told me the whole 
story before I have finished this poached egg ? If he 
cannot, then his play is worth nothing.” 

As regards novels, the manager, who was 
himself a distinguished man of letters, con- 
sented to extend the time from an egg to an 
omelette, but no farther. Now, judged by 
that standard, Francois Coppee himself might 
fairly have claimed to be the most capable 
writer of fiction living ; for no man has so com- 
pletely established his capacity for telling his 
story in few words. One of his best known 
series of tales is called Contes rapidesP which 
may be translated, “ Quickly Told Tales," 
and a more fitting title they could not have. 




i6 


Francois Coppie. 


His '‘^Contes en Prose^" too, are models of 
compression. Some of them are so short, in 
fact, that they puzzle and disappoint the in- 
experienced reader ; and it is not until he 
becomes more familiar with Coppee’s essen- 
tially dramatic method, that he begins to dis- 
cern that there is a great deal more in the 
tales than appears in the printed words. The 
more he reads them, the more he likes them ; 
and before very long he finds his own intelli- 
gence and sympathies expanding this concen- 
trated essence of fiction, so to speak, into 
romances long enough and full enough to 
occupy his thoughts for days. The first of 
the Contes en Prose the celebrated ^^Coucher 

du Soleil^"' is a wonderful composition in this 

\ 

respect. It occupies no more than eight small 
pages, and it has neither characters nor narra- 
tive. It is simply a description of sunset on 
an autumn evening in Paris. Yet it conjures 
up a scene of moving interest and of natural 
beauty, which not only fills the heart with a 


Francois Copp^e. 


17 


deep sense of pathos but suggests a multitude 
of human motives and actions instinct with 
life and feeling. Another of these strange and 
powerful conceptions, “ The Silver Thimble,” 
which is as short as the Sunset,” is nothing 
less than a thrilling novel in eight pages. A 
writer of ver)^ moderate skill would have no 
difficulty in making a novel of three volumes 
without once going outside of this little story 
for materials. In truth, Fran9ois Coppee’s 
Contes have long been a mine of wealth to 
novelists and dramatists who have not a par- 
ticle of Coppee’s genius, imagination, or liter- 
ary skill. 

Hence it has come to be recognized that 
if Coppee should choose himself to exercise 
his powers in the ordinary forms of fiction, 
instead of merely supplying inferior men with 
ideas, he might step at once into the foremost 
place. His first novel was looked forward to 
with the greatest interest. Some of his warm- 
est admirers, nevertheless, had grave misgiv- 


2 


i8 


Francois Copp^e. 


ings. They feared that his very supremacy as 
a writer of Contes and of strikingly effective 
dramas, might mar his success as a novelist 
addressing a public whose taste was already 
vitiated by the specious prolixity and false 
effects of modern romance. They feared, in 
fact, that he would prove too good, or too 
strong, for his readers ; and that, with all his 
efforts, he would be unable to dilute himself 
down to the level of the public appreciation. 
All such fears are dissipated now. In June 
last, he published “ HenrietteP — which it has 
been my privilege to be the first to present to 
American readers in their own language, — 
and it passed through five editions in rapid 
succession, and is already assured of a tri- 
umphal success. Though the original has 
only been obtainable in America a few weeks, 
it is popular among that rapidly increasing 
class who can enjoy the best fiction ; and it 
cannot be doubted that if I have succeeded 
in achieving an English version at all worthy 


Francois Coppie. 


19 


of the original, it will speedily command a 
still wider popularity. 

A word here may be deemed not out of 
place upon a question which has long exer- 
cised the mind of leading American litUra- 
ieurs^ and which remains still undecided. I 
mean the question of whether or not illicit 
love may properly be made the subject of 
fiction for general reading in a community 
where the decencies of life are habitually 
observed and the sanctity of female virtue is 
universally recognized, at least externally. A 
well-known American reviewer, who never 
puts pen in ink but for some good purpose, 
has recently discussed this question somewhat 
fully and with that perfect sincerity and fair- 
ness which are happily characteristic of men 
of his standing in this country. The conclu- 
sion he came to is, that the public opinion of 
the best class of readers in America — which 
the best class of writers are bound to respect 
— is so decidedly averse from the passionate 


20 


Francois Coppie. 


school of fiction, that it is practically excluded 
from all American periodicals of good reputa- 
tion, for the reason that these circulate in the 
family. On the other hand, there is a way 
of treating every human passion — the way of 
George Eliot, of Thackeray, of Walter Scott — 
which is by no means unacceptable to the 
most refined American readers when employed 
in works of fiction in book form, — works, that 
is to say, which stand by themselves for what 
they are, which are not carried into every 
household with miscellaneous matter, and 
which are well understood to be not written 
pueris virginibusque. 

This is the judgment of one whose judgment 
in such a case is of the weightiest. Far be it 
from me to demur from it. On the contrary, 
I deem it a great advantage, in my earnest 
endeavor to interpret the great French writers 
to American readers, to have so clear but yet 
so delicate a standard laid down for me by 
one having authority. I claim that, of all the 


Francois Coppie. 


21 


French writers I know, Fran9ois Coppee con- 
forms the most distinctly to that standard. 
He is a Frenchman, and a Frenchman can no 
more be made to write like an Englishman 
than the leopard can be made to change his 
spots or the Ethiopian his skin. But he is a 
high-minded Frenchman with delicate per- 
ceptions of taste and feeling and without a 
trace of grossness in his style. From this 
cause, a translator who has a due regard for 
the sensibilities of those for whom his work is 
destined, finds it an easy task, a labor of love, 
to divest Coppee of so much of his manner as 
is too French for the American standard of 
refinement, without losing anything of his 
admirable style or of the vivid action of his 
story. 

It must be conceded on all sides that ^^Hen- 
riette ” is a model of a novel from the purely 
artistic point of view ; and I shall feel that 
I have toiled in vain if I am told by any 
one whose opinion I value, that in the Eng- 


22 


Francois Coppie. 


lish version it is open to objection on moral 
grounds. It is true that the crucial interest 
of the story turns on illicit love. But there 
never was a novel where that subject was 
more deprived of coarseness or evil, or where 
the punishment of even the most pardonable 
fall from virtue was more strikingly exempli- 
fied. On the other hand, Coppee gives us 
in his second female character a noble por- 
trait of an essentially virtuous and pure- 
minded woman. I know of no recent novel, 
indeed, where the beauty and value of purity 
in men, as well as in women, are thrown 
into ^stronger relief than in this touching 
story of youthful passion and overwhelming 
sorrow. 

Recurring to the standard already alluded to 
as having been laid down by an adequate 
American authority, and to the particular 
mention of George Eliot as an exemplar for 
all novelists in their treatment of the sub- 
ject of human passions, it is scarcely too 


Francois Coppie, 


23 


much to say that the contrast between Ma- 
dame Bernard and Henriette Perrin is worthy 
to be placed beside that between Dinah 
Morris and Hetty Sorrell, while Coppee has 
succeeded in surrounding Henriette’s character 
with an atmosphere of childlike devotion and 
self-sacrifice which is altogether wanting from 
Hetty’s. If “Adam Bede ” may properly be 
placed in the hands of delicate-minded read- 
ers, — and after an exhaustive controversy and 
the deliberation of thirty years, it has been 
emphatically declared to be so, — then I shall 
assuredly not incur reproach for having af- 
forded the American public the opportunity 
of reading “ Henriette.” 

It is a book which depends for its interest 
on the display of emotions common to all 
mankind, and it owes very little to any 
distinctively French qualities of the author. 
It might have been written by a feeling and 
eloquent American just as well as by a feel- 
ing and eloquent Frenchman ; for it breathes 


24 


Francois Copp^e. 


throughout, the inspiration only given by 
that touch of nature which makes the whole 
world kin. 

EDWARD WAKEFIELD. 
New York, September, 1889. 



HEN RIETTE. 



t 



CHAPTER 1. 

MOURNERS AND WAGERS. 

The priest had pronounced the absolution, 
and the first of the friends and acquaintances 
of the deceased, who had come out of the 
church, after dashing themselves with holy 
water, were standing in small groups in the 
square of St. Thomas Aquinas. Like men 
of the world, they soon entered into conversa- 
tion, finding it a relief to breathe the fresh air 
of a bright March morning, after the weari- 
ness of an interminable service and the suffo- 
cating atmosphere of incense and heat from 
the steam-pipes. 

Poor Bernard ! It was rather hard to have 
to pack up his traps at forty-two ! 

No doubt. But mind you, he did not take 


28 


Henriette. 


care of himself. He had had a pretty gay 
time, eh ? 

Yes, he was generally in it, when there was 
a game of ecarti to be got. 

And he nearly wore out the stair-carpet at 
the Cafe Bignon. 

It was a case of bladder trouble, was it not ? 

It was a case of burning the candle at both 
ends — that’s what it was ! Gambling, women, 
and gormandizing. The fact is, he went the 
devil’s own pace. I suppose his affairs are in 
a nice mess ? 

Not at all. On the contrary, he had just 
realized on an old aunt worth five or six hun- 
dred thousand francs, and he must have left a 
very snug fortune for his widow and son. 

Then the lovely Madame Bernard will marry 
again ? 

Who can say ? Perhaps she won’t, on ac- 
count of the youngster. It seems, she is 
devoted to her son. 

In short, there was very little mourning for 


Mourners and Wagers. 


29 


the dead man, although, from the undertaker’s 
point of view, he was a first-class corpse, and 
was being put underground in the most gor- 
geous style, with full choral service, flowers 
from Nice, and stands of torches burning with 
a green flame round the catafalque. The 
master of the ceremonies was a most imposing 
figure, — a noble-looking old fellow, with an 
air of unutterable woe, and white whiskers 
like an ancient English peer. He was a 
very expensive man, having been taken from 
the provincial stage, where he formerly played 
heavy father with great success, and the man- 
agement only sent him out on special occa- 
sions. Yet, notwithstanding all this parapher- 
nalia, the deceased, M. Bernard des Vignes, 
Deputy and Member of the Council-General 
of la Mayenne, late Officer of Cavalry, Knight 
of the Legion of Honor, et cetera, was only 
dealt with according to his deserts in the re- 
marks that were exchanged in a low voice 
behind black-gloved hands. 


30 


He?iriette. 


The truth was, he had never been anything 
but a coarse debauchee, without any sort of 
refinement or good taste in his vices, and he 
had remained a pot-house roisterer to the 
end, in spite of his fifteen years of Paris life. 
Nothing could be more commonplace than 
his history. Having plenty of money, he mar- 
ried, at twenty-eight, the daughter of a Cor- 
sican senator, a personal friend of Napoleon 
III. This was the much-admired Mademoi- 
selle Antonini, whose classical beauty at that 
time created such a sensation at the Tuileries 
and at Compiegne. For a little time, he 
loved her, after his own fashion. Then sud- 
denly becoming absurdly jealous of his wife, 
without any reason, he resigned his lieuten- 
ant’s commission in the Empress’s dragoons, 
and went and buried himself in his estates. 
There he soon degenerated into a regular 
country lout, almost living in his hunting- 
boots, smoking his pipe at table, after his 
coffee, and drinking heavily in a selfish, un- 


Mourners and Wagers. 


31 


sociable way. He had one child, — a boy, — 
who was Madame Bernard’s only comfort, now 
that she was neglected by her rake of a hus- 
band. That worthy, after two years of house- 
keeping, used frequently to pay a visit to Paris 
and indulge in a debauch like a blue- jacket 
on leave ; and even at home, when he went 
out hunting and got his breakfast at some 
rustic abode, he could not let the farm-girls 
alone. 

The first cannon-shot in the war of 1870, 
however, awoke an echo in the soul of the 
besotted profligate, and reminded him that he 
had been a soldier. Having obtained the 
command of a body of irregulars, he fought 
with reckless bravery, was severely wounded, 
gained the cross, and at the elections was sent 
to the Chamber of Deputies by his Depart- 
ment. Like a thick-headed booby as he was, 
he always voted with the majority. From 
being a stout Conservative, he went round in 
turn to the Right Centre, the Left Centre, and 


32 


Henriette. 


the Opportunists, never opened his mouth 
except to call for the cldture, and was always 
re-elected. But being required by his parlia- 
mentary duties to live at Paris, he threw the 
reins to his appetites, and rushed into every 
sort of dissipation. 

Madame Bernard was henceforward left 
almost entirely to herself. She seldom saw 
her husband even at meal-times — that husband 
whom she had never loved, and whom she 
now thoroughly despised. Too virtuous to 
pay him back in his own coin, and too proud 
to complain, she retired from society, and 
living in almost absolute solitude in her vast 
apartment on the Quai Malaquais, she devoted 
herself entirely to her son, who was a day- 
scholar at the Lycee Louis-le-Grand, and who 
already showed signs of singularly precocious 
ability. She was one of those mothers who 
learn Latin and Greek so as to be able to 
correct their children’s exercises and help 
them with their lessons. Every one spoke of 


LlBnARY 

OF THE 

SUP. ‘.COUNCIL, 

►.‘JUKISDICTION- 


Mourners and Wagers. 


33 


s 


her with admiration ; for the few women who 
were admitted to her intimacy had no occa- 
sion to be jealous of her beauty, since she 
never placed it in competition with theirs, 
notwithstanding that it remained undimmed, 
her thirty years having merely given her the 
warm paleness of pure marble, while neither 
time nor grief had left its mark in a single 
wrinkle. The courageous and dignified way 
in which she bore her sorrow was quoted 
everywhere as an example, and Parisian malice 
did not draw attention, even by a smile, to the 
name of Colonel de Voris, a former brother 
officer of her husband’s, who hardly dared 
show his respectful regard for Madame Ber- 
nard des Vignes by calling upon her bashfully 
from time to time. 

At last, then, this poor woman’s long trials 
were at an end. Bernard, “ Big Bernard,” as 
his club friends called him, had not been able 
to get over his last gorge of truffles ; and 
standing round his capacious coffin, on the 
3 


34 


Henriette. 


threshold of the church, where it was waiting 
to be put into the hearse, the mourners formed 
a circle to listen to the funeral orations. 

But while the lying sentences were being 
rolled out, ^‘worthy son of France, gallant 
soldier, spotless patriot,” and all the rest of it, 
these worldly folks, sick of hearing about the 
dead man, of whom they already knew too 
much, were thinking, if they thought at all, 
of his rich and charming widow. She was 
free at last, and when the ceremony was over 
and the attendants were dispersing, this is 
what was said over and over again, amid the 
parting conversation : 

“ The beautiful Madame Bernard will marry 
again before a year is over. Will you take a 
bet about it ? ” 



CHAPTER II. 

THE widow’s retrospect. 

Some weeks after the funeral, Madame Ber- 
nard des Vignes was sitting before her tapes- 
try frame near the window of her boudoir, 
dressed in deep mourning. Her eyes were 
wandering over the landscape of the quay — 
with an air of abstraction, as if she were not 
looking at anything in particular. The view 
from there is very pretty on a fine day ; but 
she saw neither the pale blue spring sky, nor 
the river flashing back the sunshine as it swept 
along with its gay fleet of boats, nor the noble 
facade of the Louvre, nor the slender cluster 
of trees at the corner of the Pont Royal, 
where the faintest suggestion of green was al- 


36 


Henriette. 


ready showing itself among the black branches. 
The beautiful widow sat listlessly in her arm- 
chair, with her elbow resting on the arm, and 
two fingers of one hand on her brow, while 
her close-fitting dress scarcely restrained her 
swelling bosom. She was calling up all her 
past life in one long reverie. 

She saw herself once more at the Palace of 
the Tuileries, passing through the magnificent 
state apartments for the first time, on her 
father’s arm. She heard a murmur of admira- 
tion behind her, above the rustling of the 
train of her ball-dress. She saw a sort of half- 
smile on the face of every one who looked at 
her, an expression of sudden pleasure, as if to 
thank her for being so beautiful. She saw the 
same charmed look again in the eyes of the 
Emperor and Empress, even at the moment 
when she was presented ; and when the 
orchestra broke into the brilliant prelude of a 
waltz, it seemed to her as if this triumphal 
melody was sounded in her honor. 


The Widow's Retrospect. 


37 


Then followed several months of gayety and 
dazzling excitement. She came into full 
bloom, like a prize rose, among the fairest of 
the young ladies at Court. She followed the 
Imperial hunt at Compiegne, galloping, like a 
queen of the Amazons, across the scarlet and 
golden glades of the autumnal forest. She 
was the celebrated Mademoiselle Bianca Anto- 
nini, and the Empress, yielding to that flow of 
sympathy which perfectly beautiful creatures 
have for one another, never came near her 
without paying her some gentle compliment, 
which she listened to with lowered eyelids and 
a deferential confusion. 

But the misfortune was that she had no 
fortune, no dowry, or scarcely any. It was 
true the Emperor had rewarded his old friend 
Antonini’s services with a seat in the Senate 
— services which had been rendered with a 
fidelity that combined the instinct of a spaniel 
with the fanaticism of a Mameluke, a devotion 
that would have impelled him at any moment 


38 


Henriette. 


to throw himself between his master’s breast 
and the assassin’s dagger. But except his 
salary as senator, the old man had nothing but 
a house in ruins and a few acres of marsh in 
the wildest part of Corsica. 

This conspirator, whose appealing eyes and 
grim moustache like a gendarme’s pleased 
Napoleon III. by recalling his youth and his 
evil days, was a man of inflexible integrity. 
As a subaltern he had taken part in the affair 
at Strasbourg, at the risk of court-martial and 
a platoon of musketry. Yet, amid all the 
rascality of the period, he could show abso- 
lutely clean hands. Everybody knew that 
Mademoiselle Antonini was poor. When Ber- 
nard des Vignes, the handsome lieutenant of 
dragoons, waltzed with her three times running 
at a ball at the Tuileries, therefore, everybody 
thought her very lucky to have met with a 
match worth a hundred thousand francs a 
year. 

She married without any compulsion, but 


The Widow's Retrospect. 


39 


deliberately, with the object of allaying her 
father’s anxiety for the future ; and imme- 
diately all her happiness vanished, like a scene 
at the theatre, that had been shifted. That 
was the effect of her husband’s insane jealousy, 
her banishment to the country, and the bitter 
mortification of finding that the man to whom 
she had bound herself for life was a mere 
glutton, a coarse libertine, and little better 
than a drunkard. If it had not been for her 
new-born child, whom she had nursed herself, 
and whose arrival had filled her very heart 
and bowels with motherly love, she would 
assuredly have left her worthless husband ; 
for with her Corsican blood she had inherited 
the pride and vindictiveness, as well as the 
chastity, of her people. As it was, she resigned 
herself to her fate, for the sake of the child. 
But misfortunes followed one upon another. 
The Empire collapsed, and her father fell down 
dead with a stroke of apoplexy on hearing the 
news of the capitulation of S^dan. At length 


40 


Henriette. 


her husband, having been chosen Deputy, took 
her back to Paris. 

* * 4s * * 

Then she recalled the long years of weari- 
ness and solitude passed in this same boudoir, 
beside this same window, before this river 
flowing all the time so slowly, so monotonously, 
like her life ! 

It was true she had her son, whom she 
loved with a passionate fondness, and who, at 
thirteen, was already a companion for her, 
he was so like a little man. Had not she 
lived until then for him alone ? Well, she 
would continue to do so — that was all ! She 
would watch over him, find a wife for him, 
and become a grandmother. Her dear little 
Armand ! She was expecting him then. It 
was just about his time for returning from the 
Lycee. She was filled with tenderness at the 
thought that in a few moments he would be 
in the room, looking rather fragile in his black 
clothes, that he would throw his arms round 


The Widow's Retrospect. 


41 


her neck, and that she would kiss*him long 
and fervently. She thought of his little face, 
pale from his studies, which he worked at with 
a will, and she yearned to clasp him in her 
arms and gaze lovingly into the very depths 
of those black eyes he had inherited from her, 
those eyes so luminous with the pure flame of 
intelligence and sensibility. 

There was another recollection, however, 
which passed through Madame Bernard’s rev- 
erie. 

She was thinking now of the only one of her 
husband’s friends who had become a friend of 
hers, — the only man who was capable of arous- 
ing any sentiment in her breast. 

Every Thursday for several years past — 
Thursday was her “ day ” — a little before six, 
a time when she was never alone, Colonel de 
Voris had presented himself before her, cool, 
correct, rather stiff in his closely-buttoned mil- 
itary frock-coat, had taken his seat amid the 
circle of ladies, mixed with an effort in the 


42 


Henriette. 


commonplace conversation, declined a cup of 
tea, and then taken his departure, after a visit 
of a quarter of an hour. He loved her ; she 
was certain of it, and she was touched by being 
treated with so much respect and timidity, 
especially by the hero of Saint-Privat, who, 
when his horse was killed under him, had 
seized a soldier’s rifle, like Ney in Russia, and 
rallied his scattered troops. He loved her ! 
When she shook hands with him at parting, 
she always felt the Colonel’s hand tremble, — 
that right hand which had been pierced by 
a German lance and which he hardly ever 
showed ungloved, from a feeling of modesty 
about his wound. Supposing she should wish 
to marry again ? This brave and honorable 
man, this knight of chivalry, with a heart still 
young in spite of his gray hair, would be a 
protector for Armand, a guide for him through 
life, a new and better father. 

While the mind of the widow was following 
this train of thought, an indescribable sweet- 


The Widow's Retrospect. 


43 


ness came into her beautiful face. What was 
affecting her then ? What was it that made 
her heart beat so hard and so fast ? 

A servant suddenly announced Colonel de 
Voris. 

Certainly, he owed Madame Bernard a visit 
of sympathy after her bereavement, and, as an 
old friend, he had a right to call upon her any 
day or at any hour. But why on this day of 
all others ; why at the very instant when her 
thoughts were full of him ? Was not this coin- 
cidence very strange ? 

Madame Bernard was quite agitated when 
she saw the Colonel come in, looking still 
young, with his slender figure and his dark 
moustache contrasting agreeably with his gray 
hair. He came to her, gave her his hand, — 
his wounded hand, without a glove, — took a 
seat near her, and spoke to her about her loss. 

“ I need not tell you how I felt for you in 
your grief,” he said. 

Not another word upon that painful subject. 


44 


Henriette. 


He had too much delicacy not to understand 
that she would be suffocated by condolences 
which could not be sincere. He then asked 
after Armand, and he spoke in a less formal 
tone when he mentioned the child’s name. 

But as the conversation still languished and 
was interrupted by long pauses, the Colonel 
said at length, not without some hesitation : 

“ I also came, madame, to ask your advice.” 

“ Advice ? From me ? What can it be 
about ? ” 

Before your loss I intended to return to 
Algeria. I wished to go away to some distant 
post. I had a private reason. But now the 
new Minister of War has asked me to remain 
in Paris, and offered me an appointment on 
his staff. The distress of mind which impelled 
me to go away no longer exists, or, at least, I 
am not without hope of its being removed. I 
am in doubt as to what to do. Ought I to 
stay or to go ? I appeal to your friendship to 
answer me frankly.” 



[T WAS HER SON WHO HAD JUST RETURNED FROM SCHOOL, AND WHO HAD THROWN HIS BOOKS ON ' 

TABLE AND WAS CLINGING NEXT MOMENT ROUND HIS MOTHER'S NECK. 


Page 45 




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The Widow's Retrospect. 


45 


Madame Bernard knew very well what he 
meant. Under this very thin disguise, the 
Colonel had asked her whether he might ex- 
pect the reward of his silent fidelity. She only 
had to say one word, ‘‘ Stay ! ” and, in a year, 
she would be the wife of a man whom she 
respected, who would console her for her past 
sufferings, and who would be a good father 
to her dear Armand. She would once more 
know what it was to be happy, to love, to live ! 

But the door suddenly opened, and a clear, 
childish voice cried, “ How are you, mother ? ” 
Madame Bernard started. It was her son, 
who had just returned from school and who 
had thrown his books on the table, and was 
clinging next moment round his mother’s 
neck. 

“ Good-day, my child,” said the Colonel, 
won’t you shake hands with me ? ” 

Armand hardly knew this solemn-looking 
visitor. He had rather a shy disposition. 
However, he touched the hand that was of- 


46 


Henriette. 


fered to him, but only from politeness and 
obedience ; and a look of uneasiness, almost 
amounting to suspicion, passed over his great 
black eyes. Her son’s manner was not lost on 
Madame Bernard. She saw what total strang- 
ers the man and the child were to one another, 
and, touched to the quick by that wonderful, 
all-powerful instinct of mothers, she felt her- 
self blushing with shame to the very ears. 
What had she been thinking about a minute 
before, good God ! 

She rose from her chair, drew Armand 
close to her, placed one of her hands on her 
son’s head with a caressing gesture, and then, 
looking down, but speaking quite calmly, she 
said to the Colonel, who was standing in front 
of her : 

“ I owe you an answer, my dear M. de 
Voris, and it will be as straightforward as your 
question. I think, — yes, I think you will do 
better to go to Algeria.” 

The Colonel, having saluted respectfully. 


The Widow's Retrospect. 


47 


left the room with the firm stride of a soldier 
whose commander has ordered him to go to 
certain death, and who goes. 

It was settled. The beautiful Madame Ber- 
nard des Vignes would never marry again. 




CHAPTER III. 

CORSICAN JEALOUSY AND MOTHERLY LOVE. 

From the hour when she came to that de- 
termination, the widow’s love for her son 
increased in proportion to the sacrifice she 
had made for him. It became more passion- 
ate and jealous than ever. She could not 
bear Armand to be away from her. She 
wanted him to be constantly in her sight, or, 
if not that, she at least wanted to know that 
he was at home, close to her. She suffered in 
his absence, though it was never very long, 
since he only went to the Lyc^e during the 
hours of study ; and sometimes, yielding to an 
overwhelming desire to see him ‘ sooner than 
usual, she would order her carriage and drive 


Corsican Jealousy and Motherly Love. 49 


to the gate of Louis-le-Grand. She arrived 
there long before the time for the students to 
come out, sat restless and impatient, and cast 
longing glances at the door of the school, like 
a lover who has come first to the rendezvous. 
At last she heard the roll of the drum, which 
was the signal that the class was over ; and if 
her child came out among the last, it posi- 
tively gave her pain, and she almost thought 
of reproaching him for not having had a pre- 
sentiment that she was there. She hastened 
to get him into the carriage, pressed him 
to her to kiss him on the forehead, as if he 
had just returned from a long voyage, and 
kept him close to her like that the whole way 
home, with the gesture of a miser hugging his 
gold. 

Sometimes Armand came out of the Lycee 
laughing and chatting with a schoolfellow, 
and Madame Bernard, suddenly feeling un- 
easy, put a score of pressing questions to her 
son : “ What is that boy’s name ? ” “ Who is 

4 


50 


Henriette. 


he ? ” “ What are his parents ? " “ Do you 

really wish to make a friend of him ? ” And 
if Armand, with the ready enthusiasm of his 
age, spoke warmly of his young classmate, 
and praised his abilities or his good qualities, 
Madame Bernard experienced a painful feeling 
and already conceived a mistrust of this youth 
who seemed to have come between her and her 
son. She knew it was unjust, and she blamed 
herself for it. Instead of feeling hurt, she 
reasoned with herself, — ought she not, on the 
contrary, to have rejoiced that Armand had 
an affectionate disposition and a tendency to 
make friends ? 

“ Invite that young man to come to the 
house,” she said, making a great effort. “I 
shall be delighted to receive him.” 

When she saw the schoolfellow again, she 
tried to be particularly pleasant to him, as if 
to punish herself for having thought ill of him. 
But she did not succeed very well ; it was too 
much for her ; and she did not quite recover 


Corsican Jealousy and Motherly Loi^e. 5 1 


her self-possession until the visitor had gone 
and she again had her son all to herself. 

Armand was perfectly well aware of this 
jealousy and distrust in his mother’s love for 
him. His intelligence and sensibility had 
been prematurely developed, for the very 
reason that from his earliest infancy he had 
been tied to his mother’s apron-strings and 
brought up all alone with her and her caresses. 
In his refined nature there was not a trace of 
those selfish, coarse, ungrateful impulses which 
are unfortunately only natural to most boys. 
This strange child, while he worked hard at 
his studies and found a positive pleasure in 
carrying off the college prizes, understood 
and appreciated the movements of his moth- 
er’s heart. He made a thousand excuses for 
her if she let her passion for him run to ex- 
cesses that became painful, and in all his con- 
duct towards her he showed her the utmost 
consideration and gentleness, and treated her 
with as much delicacy as if he had been a man. 


52 


Henriette. 


It was an unspeakable joy to Madame Ber- 
nard to realize that she was loved so deeply 
and so warmly. She reproached herself then 
for monopolizing her son and keeping him too 
close to her side. She encouraged his school- 
fellows to come to the house, and received 
them with kindness, and she even wished to 
give Armand more liberty. Far from abusing 
it, however, as many other young fellows of 
his age would have done, he became more de- 
voted to her than ever, and more assiduous in 
his attentions. For several years she was the 
happiest of mothers. 

One of her greatest delights was to go out 
for walks In Paris, on her son’s arm. He was 
just finishing his last year at college, and had 
grown into a handsome, slender young man. 
He dressed remarkably well, too, without any 
boyish awkwardness. As for Madame Ber- 
nard, she was still in her bloom at thirty-six. A 
great many heads turned round as they passed 
along ; but the beautiful widow scarcely no- 


Corsica?i Jealousy and Motherly Love. 53 


ticed that the men still gave her the old look 
of sudden pleasure. She was too much occu- 
pied in observing how the women all fixed 
their glance for a moment on her son, and 
showed in their eyes that fugitive smile which 
plainly means : What a good-looking fel- 

low ! ” He, however, did not seem to notice 
it at all, and that was another great comfort to 
his mother. She rejoiced to think that her 
dear boy, who was so clever and so precocious 
in many ways, was, nevertheless, so pure- 
minded that he was actually ignorant of his 
own attractions. 

She thought about this a great deal some- 
times at that critical period of his life when 
the youth becomes a man. Yes, a day would 
come — a dreaded day — when Armand would 
love some other woman better than he loved 
her, and in a different way. This thought 
distressed her so acutely that she had not 
the courage to face it. She tried to avoid 
resting upon it and to drive it out of her 


54 


Henriette, 


mind. It stood to reason that later on — much 
later on — when Armand had passed his exam- 
ination and chosen a profession, he would 
marry. That was only natural. She herself 
would do what was right when that time 
came. She would help him to find a compan- 
ion who would make him happy. But a mis- 
tress, a thief of young hearts, who takes a 
son away from his mother and sends him 
back to her with disordered wits and hollow 
eyes, — to the vindictive Corsican, the profli- 
gate’s unsullied widow, the jealous and exact- 
ing mother, such a woman was a detested 
enemy whom she could not think of, even by 
anticipation, without clinching her teeth and 
trembling with rage. 




CHAPTER IV. 

THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 

As. Fate would have it, Madame Bernard des 
Vignes herself introduced this future rival into 
her own house just at the time when her son, 
who had reached his twentieth year, was pre- 
paring for his final examination for the law. 

Her name was Henriette Perrin, and she 
was a common seamstress who went out by the 
day. A friend of Madame Bernard’s, a very 
benevolent person, had warmly recommended 
this young girl to her. She was scarcely nine- 
teen, she had lost both father and mother, and 
she had nothing to live upon but what she 
could earn, — three francs a day and her meals 
— and yet she managed out of these slender 
resources to give some assistance to an aged 
aunt with whom she lived. Madame Bernard 


S6 


Henriette. 


took a fancy to this pretty little creature the 
first time she saw her : she was so nicely man- 
nered and well behaved, and she dressed with 
so much taste — the instinctive good taste of 
the Parisian work-girls, who contrive to look 
like ladies in a frock worth twenty sous a yard, 
put together by their own industrious hands. 
The seamstress also succeeded in gaining the 
friendship of Leontine, Madame Bernard’s old 
housekeeper, who reported most favorably of 
her to her mistress. 

“ That poor child ! ” she said to Madame 
Bernard. “ She comes on foot from the other 
end of Vaugirard at eight o’clock in the morn- 
ing without any breakfast. I give her some 
coffee and milk, and immediately afterwards 
she settles down to her work in the little parlor 
as grave as a judge and as quiet as a mouse. 
I call her ‘ Little Miss Silence.’ All day long 
she plies her needle. She sews and sews, 
without ever stopping to rest. And she looks 
so pretty all the while. Madame has noticed 


The Enemy in the Household. 


57 


her beautiful fair hair, and you could put your 
two hands round her waist. As Madame has 
given permission, I bring her her meals on 
a tray. Madame is quite right ; it is not a 
good thing for a young girl to be down in the 
kitchen among the servants. She eats very 
cleanly, and never lets a crumb of bread fall. 
Sometimes we have a little chat together ; she 
has a very hard lot, Madame. Would you 
believe it, — if it weren’t for her, this very 
moment her aunt would be among those old 
paupers you see warming themselves in the 
sun on the benches in front of the Salpetri^re. 
So young and so brave, and to have family 
cares ! It’s sad to think of ! ” 

Madame Bernard soon saw for herself that 
the little seamstress really deserved these 
praises. She always found her the same gen- 
tle, timid, hard-working, touching little crea- 
ture, and to show her interest in her she prom- 
ised her three days’ work a week. She got 
into the habit, when passing through the parlor. 


58 


Henriette. 


of looking for the fair head bent over her 
work near the window, and she often stopped 
and said a few pleasant words to Henriette. 
The girl seemed to have a peculiar charm about 
her ; ^for when Madame Bernard saw she was 
not in her usual place she thought with a feel- 
ing of regret, “ Oh, it is not one of her days.” 

Things had gone on in this way for some 
months, when Madame Bernard received a 
letter in a bad handwriting and very doubtful 
spelling, in which Henriette took leave of her, 
thanked her for her kindness, and informed 
her that she had got regular employment at a 
fashionable dressmaker’s. 

“ The little creature might have come and 
told me that herself,” Madame Bernard said, 
rather vexed. “ I am sure I have been kind 
enough to her. But, after all, these poor 
people’s time is precious. It’s their bread. 
I’m very glad she has got a good place, at all 
events.” 

She thought no more about the subject. 


The Enemy in the Household. 


59 


But a few days afterwards, having gone into 
her son’s room to put fresh flowers in the 
vases, she saw a letter which had fallen on the 
carpet, picked it up to put it on the writing- 
table, and, glancing carelessly at the envelope, 
read the name of Armand Bernard, and almost 
lost her senses when she recognized the seam- 
stress’s childish handwriting. Had she or had 
she not a right to read this letter ? This 
scruple did not detain her more than three 
seconds. It was a matter that concerned her 
son, and for his sake she would have com- 
mitted perjury, murder, or any other crime. 
She quickly took the letter out of the en- 
velope and unfolded it. These words flung 
themselves into her face and burned her eyes 
as if they had been vitriol : 

“My darling Armand, come and wate for me this 
afternoon when I come out of the shop. We will spend 
the evining together. I love you better than my life. 

“ Henriette.” 

Blinded, thunderstruck, with a burning sen- 


6o 


Henriette. 


sation at the root of every hair on her head, 
her knees crushed under the weight of her 
emotion, Madame Bernard sank helplessly 
into her son’s study chair. 

So, the very thing she had feared, but had 
hardly dared to look forward to — and then 
only in the distant future — had already come 
about. Her son had a mistress. And who 
was she ? The sewing-girl of the house. Why 
not the chambermaid or the woman that 
washed the saucepans ? Yes, her Armand 
whom, until that very evening, she thought as 
pure as a flower of spring ; her refined, aristo- 
cratic boy, with his white skin and his slender 
figure, looking like a prince of royal blood, 
belonged to this street girl, this baggage 
dragged out of the gutters of Paris ! No 
doubt he loved her, and he had very likely 
covered this horrible letter with kisses, written, 
as it was, like a washerwoman’s bill. And she 
had seen nothing and suspected nothing ! Oh, 
blind ! oh, fool ! 



ihU 


MADAME BERNARD FELL HELPLESSLY INTO HER SON’S STUDY CHAIR. 

Page bo. 




j-- -' ■■,;^^^^^^X*''’r- 'i-H-;. ' -a'- . -tjE; 



The Enemy in the Household. 


6i 


What ! It was she herself who, in her sense- 
less good-nature, had given this harlot shelter 
under her own roof ! It was too much ! She 
remembered now having drawn Armand’s 
attention to the sewing- girl and having spoken 
kindly about her before him. Then, it was 
for that, she had devoted every minute of her 
life to Armand ; it was for that, she had borne 
without complaint long years of outrage and 
neglect after her marriage ; it was for that, 
she had renounced the hope, the certainty of 
happiness by sending Colonel de Voris away ! 
She had watched over her child as a miser over 
his gold ; she had reared him like a hot-house 
flower ; she had made him the sole treasure of 
her mother’s heart and bowels, the sole object 
of her devotion and love — and all that he 
might yield to the first impulse of sexual de- 
sire and become the prize of a demirep, the 
passing fancy of a street-walker ! And she 
had been such a simpleton, such a fool, as to 
suppose that he was better and more fastidious 


62 


Henriette. 


than other men ! Why should he be ? He 
■had his father’s blood in his veins, the vicious, 
dissipated blood which formerly used to throw 
“ Big Bernard ” into a paroxysm of lust at 
the sight of the lowest and coarsest woman 
on the pavement. Yes ! It was all too true ! 
It was only what might have been expected. 

Crushed, wounded, with a flood of bitterness 
and disgust rising in her heart, Madame Ber- 
nard remained seated, her eyes still on the 
fatal letter, in the pretty room where every- 
thing around her — the graceful furniture, the 
subdued light, the handsomely bound books, 
even the faint perfume of the little articles in 
Vienna leather, all arranged in their order on 
the writing-table — reminded her of her son’s 
refined Habits and of his pure and studious 
youth. The letter itself, which she still held in 
her hand ; the letter which she had come upon 
as you might come upon a toad on the smooth 
gravel of an English park; this letter that stank 
of the lower orders, scrawled on a piece of 


The Enemy in the Household. 


paper bought from the grocer, with its two 
glaring mistakes in spelling, and its vulgar 
handwriting — like a child’s at a charity school . 
• — ugh ! it brought a feeling of sickness to the 
poor virtuous woman’s very lips. 

All at once, Armand came in with his stu- 
dent’s portfolio under his arm, careless, light- 
hearted, his eyes sparkling with the brightness 
of youth, and only surprised to find his mother 
in his room. 

‘‘You here ! ” he exclaimed, as if delighted 
to see her. “ How do you do, mamma ? ” 

But Madame Bernard had risen and was 
standing stiff and pale. She threw Henriette’s 
letter on the desk, pointed it out to her son 
with a trembling finger, and in a voice that he 
scarcely recognized, a metallic voice full of 
anger and contempt, she said : 

“I have read it. Another time, take care 
not to leave your mistress’s letters about.” 

She added, with a gasp, as if she were 
choking : 


64 


Henriette. 


“ And such a mistress ! ” 

Then, leaving the young man speechless and 
purple with shame, the enraged mother went 
out of the room and slammed the door behind 
her. 




CHAPTER V. 

AT CROSS PURPOSES. 

There was a great deal of excuse to be 
made for these poor young people, all the 
same. 

Like his mother, Armand, when he passed 
through the little parlor, had been interested 
in that gentle profile which gently bent down 
to salute him as he went by. But he had not 
seen — so innocent was he — the glance, quickly 
turned aside, but very tender whilst it lasted, 
that the seamstress cast upon him. Neither 
had he seen the blush that mounted to her 
face when he was gone. As for her, the first 
time she had set eyes on Armand — yes, at the 
first blow, without any resistance — she had 
5 


66 


Heiiriette. 


fallen in love with him, and thenceforward the 
handsome and refined youth, with his graceful 
manners and his bright, sweet eyes, seemed to 
belong to a higher order of creation. Hen- 
riette was a virtuous girl, but she was not 
ignorant. From the time when she was appren- 
ticed to her trade, the conversation, of the 
other girls had taught her a good deal. But 
never had she had the boldness to dream of 
the object of her rising love, with any feeling 
of desire. 

In her eyes Armand was a “gentleman,” 
one of those superior beings whom the poor 
cannot know and can only see from afar. She 
felt sure that he had a sweetheart, for in her 
class no one supposes that a man can remain 
innocent till he is twenty; but she imagined 
his lover must be a woman in his own social 
circle, a fine lady, and, without knowing her, 
but having no doubt of her existence, Hen- 
riette thought her very fortunate, and envied 
her the pleasure of passing her jewelled fingers 


At Cross Purposes. 


67 


through the young patrician’s dark, curly hair, 
which was always a little in disorder. She, 
poor girl ! must be content to admire him 
respectfully at a distance. When he said to 
her, in passing, “ Good-morning, mademoi- 
selle,” it gave her an exquisite feeling that 
sank down to the bottom of her heart. But 
to conceive that she could attract Armand’s 
attention, or appear beautiful in his eyes ! 
No, she was not so mad. 

He thought her charming. He was drawn 
towards her by all those feelings of curiosity 
and excitement which were just beginning to 
awaken and assert themselves with all the 
force of virgin passion. Up to that time, it 
was true, he had been quite virtuous, never 
having known either the degrading associa- 
tions of the school dormitory, nor the bru- 
talizing experiences of a man about town. 
But his hour of trial had come. At the very 
thought of this lovely creature being there, 
in the same house with him, Armand sank 


68 


Henriette. 


under the weight of a sudden languor and 
became incapable of all work. Suddenly leav- 
ing his open books, he would find some hypo- 
critical pretext for walking through the rooms, 
so as to pass through the parlor where Hen- 
riette was seated at her sewing, to cover her 
with a rapid glance, and receive in return a 
quick flash from her eyes. Then he would 
return to his own room, throw himself wearily 
on his bed, and lie there quite overcome, with 
a burning forehead and restless hands, yearn- 
ing for her and feeling half inclined to cry. 

Being more versed in the secrets of life than 
he was, Henriette came at last to see how her 
presence affected the young man. Was it pos- 
sible ? He had taken a fancy to her ! This 
perfect gentleman,” so refined, so “ elegant,” 
as she said in her own mind, in the language 
of her order ; this Armand, who seemed to be 
of a different race from herself, whom she 
looked up to as a sort of demigod, deigned to 
take notice of her ! In the sincerity of her 


At Cross Purposes. 


69 


humility, she was thrown into confusion, at 
first, by the very idea of such a thing. But 
after that her heart overflowed with infinite 
tenderness. 

Ah ! Armand only had to make a sign. She 
was his, as soon as he chose to take her ! 
Very simple-minded and naturally modest, she 
knew nothing about the arts of flirtation or the 
diplomacy of love. Yes, in the twinkling of 
an eye she was ready to offer herself to him, 
with all her bloom of youth, ready above all to 
give him her heart, in the depths of which 
she felt a mysterious irresistible force, which 
seemed to lift her up and force her into Ar- 
mand’s arms. Already she reproached herself 
for not making the first advances to him. She 
saw how bashful he was, and she would gladly 
have encouraged him. But she could not 
overcome her own feeling of modesty. Yet 
she thought it would be so easy to respond to 
Armand ’s glance by another glance, and to his 
smile by another smile. Poor, fond, foolish 


70 


Henriette. 


creature ! When he passed near her now, she 
had not even the courage to raise her head. 
In this fashion days and days slipped away 
without the young man, who was so much 
adored, ever guessing that he was adored at 
all, — without this short-sighted Daphnis dis- 
covering that the nymph was waiting for him 
as if he had been Jupiter himself. 




CHAPTER VI. 
love’s young dream. 

But the catastrophe was inevitable. 

One beautiful Sunday, — it was towards the 
end of the month of May, — a Sunday with 
bright blue sky and sunshine warm enough to 
bring out summer frocks, Armand, who was 
engaged to dine with one of his college friends, 
had taken leave of his mother about four 
o’clock and gone for a walk, wherever his 
steps might lead him. 

When he got outside, he felt in terribly low 
spirits, in spite of the warm air and the glori- 
ous sunlight. He looked enviously at all the 
common folks who passed in couples, bent on 
enjoying their holiday. What Parisian, during 
the stormy hours of his youthful prime, has 


72 


Henriette. 


not experienced these weary wanderings, or 
that dismal feeling of solitude and misery in 
the midst of the happy crowd ? 

He walked with heavy steps the whole way 
up to the top of the Rue Saints-Peres, turned 
to the right by the Rue de Sevres, passed 
through the square with its groups of plane- 
trees, and, leaving behind him the closed win- 
dow fronts of the Bon Marche, continued his 
stroll along the spacious pavement that runs 
under the old wall of the Laennec Hospital. 
At that time of day on Sunday, in the summer, 
this great street of the clerical quarter is 
almost deserted. The shops where they sell 
religious emblems are shut. The nuns and the 
bands of orphans have already gone back to 
vespers. There are hardly any foot-passen- 
gers, except a few workmen or little shop- 
keepers out for their Sunday, or here and 
there, perhaps, a couple of white-gloved sol- 
diers, or a priest hurrying along in his black 
cassock. Those are about all, and every ten 


Loves Young Dream. 


73 


minutes the omnibus comes jolting heavily 
down the middle of the street, as if it were 
asleep. 

But round the entrance to the hospital, the 
shabby stalls for flowers, biscuits and oranges, 
and the visitors going in and out, give the 
appearance of a little more animation. It was 
in the middle of this collection that Armand 
suddenly set eyes on Henriette a few paces 
ahead of him. She wore a dress of the light- 
est material, and of the palest shade of pea- 
green, which brought out to perfection the 
shape of her supple, slender figure. A pretty 
bunch of corn-flowers were gracefully arranged 
in her wicked little brown straw bonnet, and 
she was holding her parasol open over her 
shoulder, with a well-gloved hand. In this 
simple attire, the little Parisian presented a 
charming picture of youth and freshness. 
When she recognized Armand she blushed a 
rosy red, and her open mouth, her glittering 
white teeth, her eyes like mignonnette wet with 


74 


Henriette. 


dew, her fair hair sparkling with gold, her 
humble but dainty costume even, seemed to 
give him a smile of welcome. 

Armand had raised his hat; and though his 
heart was beating hard enough to be heard, he 
was going to pass her, the simpleton, without 
speaking. She, however, gave him such a 
pleasant “ Good-day, sir,” that he could not 
help stopping; and longing to get into conver- 
sation with her, yet not knowing what to say, 
he asked her in a shaky voice where she was 
coming from. 

She was almost as much confused as he 
was, and, in answer to his question, she spoke 
hurriedly, as if merely for the sake of saying 
something. 

She was coming out of the hospital, w^here 
she had been to take some little comforts to 
her aunt, who had been laid up sick for a 
fortnight. But it was nothing very bad. The 
poor old lady was better already and would 
soon be sent to the convalescent ward. Hen- 


mmmmrnm 



ARMAND HAD RAISED HIS HAT AND, THOUGH HIS HEART WAS BEATING HARD ENOUGH TO BE HEAR4 
HE WAS GOING TO PASS HER, THE SIMPLETON, WITHOUT SPEAKING, 


Fa£-e 74, 






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Love's Young Dream. 


75 


riette was glad of that ; for it was very dull 
for her to find the house all alone, as she said, 
when she went home every evening. 

They were neither of them thinking of what 
they were saying. They were looking into the 
depths of each other’s eyes and trembling with 
excitement. This meeting, and their getting 
into conversation, seemed to both of them an 
extraordinary event. To speak like this in 
the open street to a young girl whom, after 
all, he scarcely knew at all, was the boldest 
thing Armand had ever done in his life ; 
whilst, as for the loje-stricken maiden, she 
was as much bewildered as a shepherdess in 
a fairy story when the king’s son comes in his 
grand carriage to ask for her hand. 

Without seeming to notice what they were 
doing, the young couple found themselves 
walking along side by side. Armand, with his. 
mouth parched and his temples throbbing, 
tried in vain to think of something to say. 

“ So, then, mademoiselle — Now, you are 


76 


Henriette. 


going — Are you — Are you going for a 
walk ? ” 

“ Oh, good heavens ! no, sir. I must run 
home directly to get my dinner. Not that 
that will take long. And then I must go to 
bed early. You know I have to be up at 
seven in the morning.” 

Armand sighed at the thought that she was 
going to leave him and that he should see no 
more of her. A project of unparalleled au- 
dacity, for him, passed through his mind, and, 
with something of the desperate courage of 
cowards, he stammered out : 

“You told me just now, mademoiselle, that 
you found it very dull being all alone in the 
evening. Well, since you are disengaged, will 
you give me a great pleasure, — a very great 
pleasure, I assure you, — will you come and take 
dinner with me ? ” 

Henriette was almost beside herself with 
surprise and joy. She thought she must be 
dreaming. The fairy story went on. 


77 


Love's Young Dream. 


“ What ! Do you really mean it, Monsieur 
Armand ? ” 

Already the use of his Christian name, 
which had passed her lips for the first time, 
established a certain intimacy between them. 

“Are you in earnest ? Do you invite me to 
dinner ? ” 

He thought she was going to refuse, and 
the fear of that made him more reckless than 
ever. 

“ Yes, certainly. Let us dine together some- 
where, like two companions. I have a friend 
expecting me, but it does not matter. I will 
make some excuse. I will send a note from 
the restaurant. Do say yes. You will make 
me so happy.” 

Then, losing his head altogether, he added : 

“ You are so charming ! I want to know 
you well, and I want you to make a friend of 
me.” 

And he dared to offer her his arm. 

Henriette took it. She felt as if she were 


78 


. Henriette. 


going to faint, and letting out her own secret 
in her delirium, she murmured : 

What happiness ! I never do anything else 
but think about you ! ” 

Poor children ! In a quarter of an hour or 
less they were able to speak freely, and already, 
in the artless sincerity of their passion, they 
had exchanged vows of eternal love. So ab- 
sorbed were they in their happiness that they 
wandered on without knowing where. They had 
reached the Boulevard Montparnasse, where 
there were a great many foot-passengers, and 
the good folks kept turning round with a smile 
to look back at the handsome couple, so nicely 
dressed and looking so young and sweet. But 
the lovers were too much occupied with their 
own bliss to take any notice of them. They 
got into conversation again, and now they 
were able to discuss the time when they were 
so bashful and restrained. 

“ Is it truly so ? ” asked Armand. “ Have 
you had a little feeling for me all the time ? ” 


Love's Young Dream. 


79 


“ A little feeling ! ” replied Henriette. “ I 
have only lived for the minutes when you 
passed through the parlor. Directly I saw the 
handle of the door turning I could tell whether 
it was you or not. Oh ! if you only, only 
knew ! ” 

“ Is it possible ! And I never noticed any- 
thing ! ” 

* “ Oh, but I did,” said Henriette, with a 

knowing look. “ I noticed that you passed 
near me very often.” 

“And to think,” Armand went on, getting 
very excited now, “ that that might have lasted 
forever, and unless we had met this evening — 
But it is all over now, thank Heaven ! There 
is an end of it ! What a lucky chance it was, 
my meeting you ! I was very nearly passing 
you without saying a word, I was so afraid of 
offending you. But I saw in your eyes directly 
that I might speak to you and that you would 
be pleased if I did. We know each other 
better now, don’t we? And we will manage 


8o 


Henriette. 


\ 


to meet again and see each other very often — 
as often as possible ! And you will be my own 
little sweetheart, won’t you?” 

The poor girl, speaking with the open-heart- 
edness of her class, which a sceptic might have 
taken for effrontery^ but which seemed delight- 
ful to Armand, replied in a deep voice and 
with her eyes lowered, “ You know very well 
—I will ! ” 




CHAPTER VII. 

THE FRUIT OF THE FORBIDDEN TREE. 

Near the Montparnasse railway-station they 
went into the restaurant Lavenue, which Ar- 
mand happened to know through having 
breakfasted there with some of his friends at 
the Law School, and they seated themselves in 
what is called by courtesy the garden, though 
it is only planted with gas-lamps and hat- 
stands. That day, however, an acacia that 
was in full bloom a little way off spread a 
delicious odor of spring about the place. Ar- 
mand first sent a note by a cominissionnaire to 
excuse himself at the house where he had been 

invited, and then ordered dinner, or rather 
6 


82 


Henriette. 


accepted the menu that was imposed upon 
him by the pompous proprietor of the hotel. 
What did the sole Joinville or the fillet Rossini 
signify to the young couple ? They were sit- 
ting face to face with one another, devouring 
one another with their eyes and twittering like 
two birds, and there was passion and affection 
even in the most ordinary things they said : 
“ Some water ; thank you. Oh, please fill it 
quite up.” “A little more fish? Do, now. 
You have eaten nothing.” 

Armand persuaded his new friend to talk, 
and she told him her humble history. No, 
sure enough, she had not been born with a 
silver spoon in her mouth. Yet, when she 
was very small, her life had not been a hard 
one. Her father, a widower, was a skilled 
mechanic, and earned enough to enable him 
to supply all the wants of his little girl and of 
his elderly sister who had charge of the child. 
But one day the poor man was caught in a 
wheel at his workshop and died of his injuries. 


The Fruit of the Forbidden Tree. 83 


Henriette was then left alone with her aunt, a 
woman from the country, who was entirely 
without means. Her father’s former employer 
made the child a small allowance, and the 
old woman kept house. But with it all, they 
had to undergo great hardship. The child, 
who had just been confirmed, was obliged 
to be apprenticed to a trade and to leave 
school, where, by-the-by, she had never learnt 
much. 

“ Oh ! Monsieur Armand, if you could only 
see my scrawl and the shocking mistakes I 
make. 1 am so ashamed of it ! ” 

Then she told him of the long years of 
poverty and suffering they had to endure, the 
furniture and comforts of their poor home 
going bit by bit, the clock sent over and over 
again to the pawnshop to provide them with 
food, and the dread they had of each ap- 
proaching rent-day. Fortunately, she soon 
became very skilful at her trade, and now 
they had enough to live on, — just enough, and 


84 


Henriette. 


that was all, but still they could manage to 
live on it. Moreover, there was a likelihood 
of her position improving. Some one had 
spoken about her to Madame Pamela, the great 
dressmaker, who had a vacancy in her work- 
room, and in a few days, the next day per- 
haps, she hoped to get into that famous house, 
where she might earn a hundred and fifty or 
two hundred francs a month. 

Armand listened to her with the deepest 
pity for such a child who had already worked 
so hard and suffered so much. He compared 
his own pampered and unruffled childhood 
with the life of privation, the darkest days of 
which the young girl described almost with 
gayety. He reflected that the louis which he 
was going to pay for their dinner would have 
been enough in those times to keep Henriette 
and her aunt for a whole week. Armand had 
an excellent heart, and the tears came into his 
eyes when the seamstress, with her graphic 
expressions and her narrative filled with truth- 


The Fruit of the Forbidden Tree. 85 


ful and painful details, revealed to him the 
habitual virtues and the daily sacrifices of the 
poor, so brave and so ingenious in the midst 
of their misery. 

The sun was setting when their coffee was 
served, and as they left , the restaurant, the 
gas-lights burned pale against the crimson of 
the western sky. When Henriette took Ar- 
mand’s arm again, of her own accord, in a 
trustful, wifelike way, he experienced a very 
delighful sensation. 

But the driver of a victoria, drawing his 
horse up beside the pavement, made a sign to 
them. 

“ It’s a beautiful evening,” said the stu- 
dent. “ Shall we take a turn in the Bois de 
Boulogne ? ” 

“ Oh yes,” cried the girl, joyfully. “ It is so 
nice to see some real trees ! ” 

She confessed that she had not been in an 
open carriage four times in her life, perhaps ; 
and she was very much amused by the novelty 


86 


He^iriette. 


of the thing at first and chatted away about 
her own inexperience. 

The country ? She scarcely knew what it 
was. Sometimes on Sunday evening in the 
summer time, when the weather was fine, her 
aunt took a bottle of wine and water and some 
cold meat in a basket, and they went and had 
dinner at the fortifications, to get a breath of 
“fresh air.” 

“ But that is not real country, is it ? ” she 
said, “ where there are so many melon-frames 
and tall factory chimneys ? ” 

As for the Bois de Boulogne, she had seen 
some ugly savages in the Acclimatization Gar- 
den. The crowd was too great and there was 
too much dust, and then they had to wait so 
long to get back by the tramway ! But this 
evening it would be charming. 

It was just getting dark when they arrived 
at the Arc de Triomphe ; and when Henriette 
saw before her under the starlit sky the vast, 
shadowy Avenue de iTmperatrice and the 



THE YOUNG MAN 


LEANED OVER HENRIETTE AND MURMURED PASSIONATELY IN HER EAR 
“l I,OVE YOU.” 


Page S 7 




e >*£. * t •• • 





-^•' ’ic » -^V 4 7t '53 



The Fruit of the Forbidden Tree. 87 


innumerable carriage lamps glittering like 
gigantic will-o’-the-wisps, she drew a • long 
breath of admiration and relapsed into silence, 
overwhelmed with astonishment and delight. 

Armand sat closer to his companion and 
took her hand. As she withdrew it, he feared 
at first that she meant to resist his advance. 
But, instead of that, Henriette took off her 
gloves and gently surrendered both her bare 
hands to him. At this first touch of one 
another, a thrill of delicious pleasure passed 
through them. The air grew fresher, and a 
whiff of the forest, odorous of all green things, 
swept their faces caressingly. The roll of the 
numberless carriages and the rhythmic footfall 
of the horses made a confused but soothing 
cadence. They felt as if they were being car- 
ried along by a wave. The young man leaned 
over Henriette and murmured passionately in 
her ear : “ I love you ! ” Then he gazed into 
her eyes in the darkness of evening, and found 
them fixed on his, full of pensive tenderness. 


88 


Henriette. 


Henriette was deep in thought. This was 
the most rapturous moment of her whole life, 
but it was also the most serious. In a little 
while, Armand would take her back to her 
home in Vaugirard, at the end of the Rue 
Lecourbe. Her aunt was not there ; and if 
he asked to come up into her room, she would 
not say No. She would not have strength 
enough to refuse him anything. But, after all, 
this evening, or the next day, or later, — what 
did it matter ? — she was sure to be his. 

Alas ! she did not deceive herself, this 
daughter of the people. The young man, 
whom she now saw was much more innocent 
than she had supposed before, was in love 
with her, no doubt. But how long would he 
love her ? She had nothing to give him but 
her youth and her poor loving heart. He 
would surely be ashamed of such a humble 
sweetheart, such a “ common ” girl. It is only 
in grannies’ stories that Prince Charming mar- 
ries Ass’s Skin or Cinderella. Even if she 


The Fruit of the Forbidden Tree. 89 


A^ere able to inspire him with a stronger and 
better feeling than a passing fancy, and were 
to attach him to her by a lasting affection, 
they would be compelled to part, sooner or 
later, in spite of everything. 

That was the history of plenty of her girl 
friends. One, two, three gay years of mad 
enjoyment with a lover with white hands, and 
then good-by forever ! No, what she was 
doing was not wise. Some day she would be 
abandoned like the others, like her compan- 
ions in the work-room. Most of those, the 
idle ones, the venal or the vicious ones, had 
become bad women.” A few, who had more 
sense, had married a man in their own rank 
of life, — a coarse, foul-mouthed working-man, 
who got drunk and very likely beat them. 

But why torment herself with sorrows be- 
forehand ? After all, was not her career the 
fate of nearly all poor girls ? Their youth 
passed like a flower, and then all the rest of 
their life was one long misery. Happy they 


90 


Henriette. 


who had had a little love not altogether brutal, 
— a few brief joys in their spring-time, — one 
sweet romance ! Henriette might even think 
herself one of the most favored ; for at least 
she was pretty, — pretty enough to please this 
young gentleman who was pressing her hands 
so hard and gently whispering such burning 
words against her neck. How seductive it 
all was, and how her woman’s soul was flat- 
tered by everything in this high-bred youth, 
this child of wealth, with his clear, pale face, 
and his soft, coaxing voice ! 

Even then he had no idea how she longed 
for him, so inexperienced was he. So much 
had he to learn in the school of love, that 
he was already more than contented to touch 
her smooth skin and breathe the mysterious 
perfume of a woman. Virgin though she was, 
Henriette knew more than he did and was still 
more intoxicated than he was. She longed to 
embrace him, to clasp him in her arms, to 
inhale him like incense. ' She restrained her- 


The Fniit of the Forbidden Tree. 91 


self as long as she could ; but at last, when 
the effort became more than she could bear, 
having looked round in the shadow to assure 
herself that nobody in the line of carriages was 
watching them, she silently placed her lips on 
the lips of the young man, and the two lovers, 
unseen amid the crowd, exchanged their first 
kiss under the solemn reverie of the stars. 




CHAPTER VIII. 

“ A SUPERIOR officer’s ROOM.” 

That night it was long past twelve when 
Armand got back to his mother’s house. As 
he made his way home from the other end of 
Vaugirard, intoxicated with his first love tri- 
umph, his victorious steps awoke the echoes 
of the silent streets in the bright May night. 

That ever memorable evening ! In think- 
ing of what had passed, he was overwhelmed 
by his own boldness. Could it really be he 
who had dared to ask Henriette to let him go 
up to her room ? Could it really be he whom 
she had piloted through the intricacies of the 
crazy staircase, leading him by the hand ? 

Oh ! that room, — should he ever forget it ! 


Superior Officer's Room." 


93 


Poor indeed was that fourth-floor apartment. 
Very gloomy the narrow parlor into which 
were crowded a stove with an elbow pipe, a 
round table, a sewing-machine, and the absent 
aunt’s canopy bed folded up in a corner. 
Very miserable, too, the seamstress’s little 
nook, where two colored figures — Gambetta 
and Garibaldi, a souvenir of the political 
opinions of the deceased father — were in very 
fine company with a brass crucifix and a 
branch of faded box hung over the pallet 
bed. 

But amid all this poverty and squalor Ar- 
mand had seen an unknown paradise open 
before him. He had just come away from it ; 
he was still thrilling with the mystery that had 
been revealed to him ; and he carried in his 
clothes, on his hands, in his boyish beard, the 
subtle perfume of the loving girl who, the 
moment before, had clasped him in her arms 

as if she could not let him go, and fastened 

# 

her long, long, good-night kiss upon his lips 


94 


Henriette. 


as she stood on her door-step in charming dis- 
order, her sweet eyes glittering with happiness 
and tears. 

The lovers had promised to meet again as 
soon as possible. But Henriette could not 
receive Armand at her own rooms in future. 
She had acted very imprudently in bringing 
him there at all. If it only concerned herself, 
God knows she would have laughed at the 
neighbors or at what anybody might say. 
But her aunt would soon return home from 
the convalescent asylum ; and she was an ex- 
cellent woman, whom Henriette respected and 
to whom she would not give pain for any- 
thing. 

Armand had, therefore, to look out for a 
bower for his sweetheart without any loss of 
time. Luckily, being an assiduous student and 
very methodical in his affairs, he had no want 
of money ; but he was none the less in a dif- 
ficulty, through his ignorance of the resources 
of Paris in such matters. He made up his 


Superior Officer's Room." 


95 


mind to consult one of his fellow-students at 
the Law School, named Theodore Vernier. 

This amiable youth, who was a little older 
than Armand, was in the habit of rallying him 
on his austere manners, and sometimes called 
him in jest “ Mademoiselle Bernard.” He, 
also, lived with his parents. But he was a 
spoilt child, whose fond mother allowed him 
every indulgence, with the natural result that 
he abused his opportunities. He already had 
a large circle of acquaintances in the Quartier 
Latin, smoked innumerable cigarettes, wrote 
verses according to the latest fashion, appeared 
at Bullier on the “ correct ” day, and enjoyed 
quite a celebrity at several taverns of doubtful 
reputation, where noisy women dispensed exe- 
crable beer. Though he had been well brought 
up and knew how to preserve the tone of good 
society when necessary, he had awakened an 
instinctive distrust in Madame Bernard the 
first time she saw him. She often used to say 
to her son : 


96 


Henriette. 


“ I don’t much like your friend. He gives 
me the impression of a thorough rake.” 

The day after his adventure with Henri- 
ette, Armand hastened to Theodore Vernier’s 
house, and found him in the act of ransacking 
the dictionary for a fourth rhyme for “ erbe,” 
to fix into an inflammatory sonnet with which 

he hoped to conquer the susceptible heart of a 

* 

stout brunette of the name of Flo, short for 
Florestine, who adorned, for a quarter of an 
hour at a time, a small beer-shop in the Rue 
Monsieur le Prince, decorated in Japanese 
style, and much frequented by a group of 
young poets of the fleshly school. 

Theodore welcomed his blushing comrade’s 
confession with a merry peal of laughter. 

Bravo ! ‘ Mademoiselle’ ! ” he cried ; ac- 
cept my hearty congratulations ! You are just 
in the nick ol time, too. My last sweetheart 
but one has taken a fit of jealousy ; and if the 
quarters we used to occupy are still available, 
— they are far enough away and in a highly 


Superior Officer's Roomy 


97 


respectable house, — they would be the very 
thing for you. Let us go and look at them.” 

It was rather a large room, clean, fairly well 
furnished, and supplied with light and air by 
two windows looking on one of the grand 
avenues that surround the Invalides, — “a 
superior officer’s room,” to use the expression 
of the lodging-house keeper, who often had 
dealings with the military. By Theodore’s 
advice, Armand got rid of an afflicting 
“ chromo ” representing M. Thiers declared the 
Liberator of France by the arms of three 
hundred Deputies^ and, to make the place 
look more comfortable and homelike, ordered 
two lamps, a carpet, and a few growing plants. 
Then, having paid a month’s rent in advance 
and again thanked his friend most warmly, 
he returned home, delighted with having 
secured this snug retreat. 

The doorkeeper handed him Henriette’s 
first letter. 

Such good news ! She had got the place 

7 


98 


Henriette. 


she wanted at Madame Pamela’s, — the great 
dressmaker, — and was to go there the follow- 
ing day, Tuesday. — What she did not tell him 
was that she was only too glad not to have 
to make her appearance again at Madame 
Bernard’s ; for she could not have seen Ar- 
mand’s mother without dying of shame. — If 
Armand was disengaged at half-past eight in 
the evening, when she came out of the shop, 
she would meet him under the arcades of the 
Rue de Rivoli, in front of the Continental 
Hotel. The letter ended with a few words of 
love and kisses that Armand read with a deli- 
cious swelling of the heart. It was little he 
cared, you may be sure, for Henriette’s origi- 
nal style of spelling or washerwoman’s hand- 
writing. 

Armand very seldom went out in the even- 
ing, and so, that his mother should not be 
surprised by his change of habits, he lied to 
her, — alas ! for the first time in his life, — and 
made up a story about having to attend a 


Superior Officer's RoomS 


99 


conference of students. The next day he was 
punctual at the rendezvous. 

Henriette had been at work all day at the 
celebrated workshop in the Rue Castiglione, 
which is so well known among ladies of the 
highest fashion. But as soon as the evening 
meal was over, — the work-people dined on the 
premises, — she hurried in double-quick time, 
folded up her napkin, put on her hat, wished 
everybody good-night, and, gliding out like 
a swallow, flitted away under the arcades. 
Armand had been waiting a quarter of an 
hour for her. She recognized his slim outline 
long before she got up to him, and they went 
off at once, arm in arm, with their hands 
clasped, touching one another as much as 
possible, as light as a dream, in the direction 
of their nest of love. 

For a fortnight they met in this way almost 
every evening, and they lived an enchanted 
life. 

. How they loved one another ! Oh, how 


lOO 


Henriette. 


fondly they loved one another ! Yes, with all 
the wild delight of new-born passion, with all 
the swift, insatiable rapture of young doves. 
But so tenderly, too ! To Armand, Henriette 
was not merely the Woman, the Chimera who 
fires the imagination of every grown man, and 
who at last had seized and conquered him ; 
she was already his dearly beloved one, his only 
loved one, — that heart’s treasure whom you 
can see when far away, by only closing your 
eyes, and the thought of whom haunts you 
every moment, takes possession of you, flows 
in your very blood, and envelopes your very 
soul. Everything about his gentle little lover 
appealed to the student’s deepest and ten- 
derest feelings. His strongest passions were 
aroused by the charms of her person, so deli- 
cate and pure, with all the grace of childhood 
still hovering around her. But to this natural 
ardor of a young man in the prime of his de- 
sire there was added a sentiment of profound 
affection, made up of gratitude and of gener- 


Superior Officer's Room." 


lOI 


ous pity, for this simple-minded and unselfish 
maiden who, without any design or any de- 
fence, had given him, as if it had been a rose, 
as soon as he smiled on her, the only treasure 
she possessed, — the flower of her youth and 
innocence. And, like a true-hearted, honor- 
able boy as he was, he took a solemn oath to 
his conscience that he would love her all the 
days of his life. 

As for Henriette, she abandoned herself to 
her passion with that precious faculty of living 
for the passing hour, that not altogether un- 
wise recklessness, which is the privilege of the 
simple and the ignorant. When the day came 
— the inevitable day — when she would be sep- 
arated from Armand, — well, there would be 
no more happiness for her in this world, that 
was all ! In the mean time she enjoyed her 
happiness madly — to the very last possibility 
of enjoyment. Sometimes it seemed too much 
for her. It was like something of incalculable 
value that had been put in her hand, but 


102 


Henriette. 


that she did not know the use of. Poor child ! 
She felt bewildered as a beggar might who 
had asked for a penny and received a star. 

She was adored like the most beloved of 
mistresses, yet she displayed the timid sub- 
mission of a slave. For some days she could 
not make up her mind to call her lover 
“ thee ” and “ thou.” He laughed at her good- 
naturedly about it, and Henriette’s awkward 
efforts to treat him more as an equal gave him 
exquisite pleasure. Sometimes, in a moment 
of excitement, she called him by some term of 
endearment not commonly used in polite so- 
ciety, or let out “my darling” or “my treas- 
ure,” or some such familiar phrase. Armand 
thought it very sweet ; but Henriette was 
overcome with shame, and threw herself on 
the young man’s breast and kissed his neck to 
hide her blushes. She was so afraid of not 
being “ proper ” enough for him. In spite of 
his love for her, she felt she was his inferior. 
She often took his slender, white, aristocratic 


Superior Officer's Room." 


103 


hand in hers, looked at it for a long time with 
the sensation of touching something very rare 
and precious, and always ended by raising it 
to her lips and giving it a delicate, respectful 
kiss. 

Seeing her so humble and timid, so helpless 
before the world, the youth of yesterday, whom 
she had made a man, reflected with a soft- 
ened pride that this fragile creature belonged 
to him, and was dependent on him, and that 
henceforward it was his duty to defend and 
protect her. 

How they loved one another ! How happy 
they were together ! To complete their intox- 
ication, it happened that their youthful idyl 
had for setting and scenery a succession of 
sublime summer nights, when the dark blue 
firmament displayed its infinite depths, when, 
amid the luminous rivers of the Milky Way, 
the planets shone like beacons and the stars 
arrayed their glittering hosts. 

About eleven o’clock the two lovers emerged 


104 


Henriette. 


from their secret retreat, and Armand took 
Henriette home by way of the wide, empty 
suburban boulevards. The air was balmy, 
and the long rows of trees, now in full leaf, 
exhaled a fresh odor of the night. The dome 
of the Invalides stood out darkly against the 
sky, its golden scales shining here and there in 
the starlight. 

But for the murmur of the mighty city, 
sounding far away like the hum of a bee, what 
perfect silence ! The two lovers, walking 
very slowly, with their arms round one an- 
other, tired out with happiness, advanced into 
the solitude. The fulness of their joy was 
such that they believed all nature shared it 
with them ; and when they stopped for a mo- 
ment to gaze around them, they thought the 
vast avenues, the lofty buildings, the leafy 
depths, the heavens above with their flowers 
of light, heaved with them a deep sigh of 
happiness and young desire. 



CHAPTER IX. 

’twixt duty and ,love. 

It was from this bright dream that Ar- 
mand had just been rudely awakened. 

His mother knew all, his dear good mother 
whom he loved with all his heart, but whose 
jealous nature and whose despotic and pas- 
sionate disposition he was only too well aware 
of. He foresaw that something terrible was 
going to happen and that a great deal of suf- 
fering was in store for both of them. 

He was right. The struggle began imme- 
diately. 

According to his regular custom, Armand 
went to see his mother in her boudoir, a little 
while before the dinner-hour. He entered the 
room that day for the first time with downcast 
eyes, heavy brows and a heart full of anguish 



io6 


Henriette. 


and confusion. But when he found Madame 
Bernard sitting in her usual place before her 
tapestry canvas, he saw all his happy child- 
hood again in a flash of memory and imagina- 
tion. Unable to bear the thought that there 
was an obstacle, a wall, between his mother 
and himself, or that he was not her only and 
well-beloved son, as before, he sprang towards 
her with outstretched arms and trembling 
hands, and a look that implored her pardon. 

She, however, checked him with a sharp 
gesture, a gesture of refusal, and threw in his 
face a “ No, I beg of you,” which recalled the 
young man to the sorrowful reality and froze 
the very blood in his veins. 

The servant having announced that dinner 
was served, they passed into the dining-room 
and sat down silently at table. 

This evening meal had always been the 
happiest time of the day for them. They 
talked of the various events of the day, laid 
their plans for the morrow, and enjoyed the 


'Twixt Duty and Love. 


107 


relaxation of a kindly and confidential conver- 
sation. But this evening, two invisible guests, 
Anger and Shame, had placed themselves at 
the family table. Mother and son scarcely 
touched the dishes that were put before them, 
and spoke not a word to one another. They 
returned to the boudoir, where two lamps, 
which had been lighted too early, were burn- 
ing dimly in the solemn twilight of the long 
summer day. As soon as the servant, having 
brought coffee, left them alone together, Ma- 
dame Bernard suddenly broke silence and said 
to her son in a bitter tone : 

“You are going to your conference this 
evening, are you not ? ” 

He had, in truth, an appointment with Hen- 
riette, and, blushing in the darkness, he could 
only stammer in his confusion : 

“ Mother ! ” 

Then Madame Bernard broke out. 

“Go,” she cried, trembling with rage. “Go, 
and meet your mistress. Henceforward you 


io8 


Henriette. 


need not tell any lies on that subject. For 
you have lied, you have deceived me shame- 
fully. Ah, you have made a good beginning 
with your love-affairs ! That girl has already 
made you behave basely. I tremble to think 
what the miserable wretch will make of you or 
what disgrace she will lead you into. Go and 
meet her, my boy. Do not let me detain 
you.” 

But she checked herself when she heard her 
son sobbing. 

% “You are crying!” she said, in a softer 
voice. 

He threw himself at her feet and covered 
her hands with kisses and tears. 

“Forgive me, darling mother,” he mur- 
mured. “ Forgive me, mamma, for having 
caused you pain. But if you only knew ! I 
love her ! ” 

This word instantly stopped the tendency to 

V . 

yield which was gaining on Madame Bernard’s 
heart. 


'Twixt Duty and Love. 


109 


“You love her!” she said, — and her voice 
rang with fierce sarcasm — “ you love my dress- 
maker ! But, you unhappy child, you cannot 
be serious. You must be out of your mind ! 
I had hoped, yes, I had been foolish enough 
to believe, that you would pass purely and 
proudly through the temptations of youth, 
until the day when I should have married you 
to some beautiful girl. That was my illusion, 
I confess, and you have cruelly dispelled it. 
Still, I was not unreasonable. I was ready to 
excuse an irresistible impulse, an act of pas- 
sion. I know well enough that young men will 
be young men.- But you ! You ! To run after 
the first petticoat that came by! To pay atten- 
tion to this seamstress, a common girl like that, 
scarcely even a pretty girl ! Really, I thought 
you had better taste 1 But that is enough ! I 
should lower my dignity as a mother and a 
modest woman if I were to say anything more 
about such indecency. With ydur permission, 
we will never open our lips on the subject 


no 


Henriette. 


again. I have been wrong even to get angry 
about it and to reproach you. Let me hope 
that you will not be long before you reproach 
yourself much more severely than I have done. 
A baggage whom I have been kind to ! A 
wretched little schemer whom I had sheltered 
and brought under my roof, and who took 
advantage of it to seduce my son ! No, 
Armand, you cannot be serious. You do not 
know what you are saying. Very soon, to- 
morrow perhaps, when you have had time 
for reflection and when your detestable pas- 
sion has passed away, you will blush for 
having dared to tell me that , you love this 
girl!” 

How badly she managed matters, poor wom- 
an ! What a mistake she made in wounding 
her son on the side of his love ! Already he 
was no longer on his knees ; he was no longer 
weeping on her hands, seeking to conciliate 
her by his childlike caresses. He had sprung 
to his feet, quivering with excitement, and in 



“not another word ; 


I » 


DO YOU HEAR ME, SIR 


Page III 






*Twixt Duty and Love. 


Ill 


a hoarse voice and with dry eyes, but still 
respectfully, he said : 

“ I implore you, mother, do not speak to 
me 'in such a way! You do not know the 
poor girl, and you do her an injustice ! Since 
I cannot defend her without confessing every- 
thing, I may tell you that I am the first " 

But he could not finish his sentence. Ma- 
dame Bernard burst out laughing, — an insult- 
ing laugh that was fearful to hear. Then, 
drawing herself up to her full height before 
her son and covering him with a furious look, 
she cried in a tone of command : 

“ Not another word : do you hear me, 
sir I ” 

That “ sir,” which she had used to him for 
the first time, cut the young man like a stroke 
of a knife. 

‘‘ Not one more word ! ” she went on. “ I 
see that you are more deceived, more" com- 
pletely blinded, than I had supposed. Keep 
your confessions to yourself, and leave me. 


II2 


Henriette. 


This damsel is waiting for you, no doubt, and 
a gentleman should never be late.” 

And leaving Armand speechless with grief, 
Madame Bernard fled into her bedroom. 

She remained there a long time in darkness. 
She felt a hurricane of anger, a tempest of 
hatred, rising and thundering in her heart and 
brain, against this Henriette, this worthless 
woman who had robbed her of her son’s inno- 
cence, and, as she believed, of his love as well. 
At this moment she recalled only too plainly 
the sewing-girl’s pretty profile, her reserved 
manner, her natural grace. No ! This little 
creature was neither ugly nor vulgar. She 
might well please Armand and gain his love. 
The thought of it filled her with rage, — the 
mother with her yearning heart, the widow neg- 
lected in time past by her brutal husband. She 
detested Henriette like an enemy, like a rival. 

Then, for a few minutes, Madame Bernard 
des Vignes, the pious and high-principled 
woman, who had lived in the best society and 


'Twixt Duty and Love. 


113 


shone at the Court in her day, became once 
more the savage peasant of the marshes of 
Sartene. She was the daughter of old An- 
tonini, and she felt her Corsican blood rushing 
through her veins, boiling with fury and eager 
for the vendetta. If by any possibility she 
could have seen her son’s mistress appear 
before her eyes at that moment, she would 
have flown at her like a wild beast and mangled 
her face with a stiletto. 

This frightful impulse startled her out of 
her sleep, as it were. She drove it away with 
horror, and with a feeling of disgust and pity 
for herself. Then she thought of her son with 
a sudden feeling of indulgence, a thoroughly 
maternal weakness. She had been too severe. 
Youth must have its way. Her Armand had 
a good heart, and he loved her in spite of all. 
Even if he had a little tenderness for this 
Henriette, it would not last. Besides, she 
would never believe that Armand had been 
the girl’s first lover. A daily seamstress, 
8 


Henriette. 


114 


going and coming when she pleased ! In 
Paris ! Nonsense ! Her son would soon free 
himself from such a connection. The tastes 
and habits of this street girl would grate upon 
him sooner or later. 

Who could tell ? Perhaps it was all over 
already. Was he not capable of sacrificing 
this whim of his for the sake of his mother’s 
peace of mind ? Why, yes ! A hundred times, 
yes ! Perhaps he was already thinking of 
that ! Perhaps while she was torturing her- 
self, he was still there, not half a dozen steps 
away from her, devoured by remorse, poor 
child ! and ready to promise, to swear, that 
it was all at an end ! 

Intoxicated with this sudden hope, she 
turned and ran into her boudoir. Armand 
was no longer there. The servant came in 
with the evening papers. 

“ Has Monsieur Armand gone out ? ” she 
asked, hoping he would say: No, he was still 
at home, he had just gone into his room. 


' Twixt Duty and Love. 


115 

“ Yes, madame,” the cold voice of the foot- 
man replied, “ Monsieur Armand went out a 
quarter of an hour ago.” 

Thoroughly discouraged, Madame Bernard 
let herself drop into her easy-chair and aban- 
doned herself to the thread of her sorrowful 
reflections. It seemed to her— and it was a 
feeling almost of physical pain — that some- 
thing had broken or given way in her heart. 
She glanced mechanically at the panel of the 
wall in front of her, at a portrait of herself in 
full ball-costume, which her husband had had 
painted by Dubufe during their short honey- 
moon. And in the picture, veiled in shadow, 
she seemed to see the spectre of her youth and 
beauty. What was it that sent ringing through 
her head the prelude of that waltz of Strauss 
which they played when her father presented 
her at the Tuileries ? 

Come, come ! Courage ! She must shake 
off this burden and think of something else. 
She tore open the evening paper and unfolded 


ii6 


Henriette. 


it ; and on the first page a name met her eyes 
that made her start. 

Colonel de Voris, who was then in Tonquin, 
where he had the command of one of the col- 
umns of the expeditionary force, had just been 
made a general, after a succession of brilliant 
feats of arms against the Black Flags. 

Monsieur de Voris ! How harsh she had 
been to that noble soldier, that perfect gentle- 
man ! She called to mind his long fidelity, 
his respectful patience. He was the only man 
who had ever come so near to her heart. And 
yet, entirely on account of Armand, she had 
rejected him and sent him into exile. What 
had he gone for, to that deadly climate, that 
obscure and inglorious war ? Forgetfulness, 
perhaps death. One of these days — oh ! it 
was frightful to think of ! — she would hear that 
this hero, who loved her so well, had died in 
those fetid swamps, burnt alive with fever, or, 
perhaps, tortured and mutilated by those yel- 
low men. And it would be her fault, entirely 


' Twixt Duty and Love. 


117 


her fault ; for it was she who had driven Mon- 
sieur de Voris to despair, in order to devote 
herself to this ungrateful son, who now turned 
round upon her. 

“Ah, cruel child ! ” 

She had touched the lowest depths of mel- 
ancholy. She let the paper fall on the carpet. 
In front of her, in the half-darkness, which 
seemed to change its attitude, the life-like por- 
trait was gazing at her with sad, reproachful 
eyes. It was weeping over her and lamenting 
that she had so spoilt and wasted her life. 
Outside, the great city, which never sleeps, was 
sending up its eternal roar. And Madame 
Bernard came back to the thought which she 
could not get rid of. At that very moment, 
somewhere in that mighty Paris, her son was 
in the arms of his mistress, in the arms of a 
woman whom he loved better than he did her. 
Suddenly, hiding her face in her hands, the 
poor mother wept scalding tears. 

Alas ! alas ! It is the law of nature. The 


Henriette. 


1 18 


little bird gains strength, his plumes have 
grown, he spreads his wings. Impatient for 
liberty, he leans over the edge of the nest, and, 
for all his mother’s piercing cries, he flies away, 
he flies away ! 








CHAPTER X. 

ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER. 

Days and weeks passed away, but the situ- 
ation remained the same between Madame 
Bernard and Armand. 

In appearance they had made peace. The 
second time she saw him come to her with his 
arms out, she had not the heart to repel him. 
They kissed one another morning and evening. 
But this kiss was as much a punishment for 
one as for the other. She could not help 
shuddering at the touch of her son’s lips, fresh 
as they were under his downy moustache. She 
thought she could feel there — she actually 
did feel — the caresses of “the other,” that 
woman whom she hated so much. Sometimes 
she could hardly resist wiping her face after 


120 


Henriette. 


Armand had kissed her. As for him, he no 
longer felt the kindly warmth of former days 
on her pale face, her cold cheek, which she 
presented to him with such an air of restraint, 
almost of resignation. 

Madame Bernard never said anything more 
to her son about his love-affair. She never 
mentioned Henriette’s name. Why not ? From 
womanly modesty and motherly pride. From 
policy also, perhaps. She was afraid of irri- 
tating the young man and of widening the 
breach that already existed between them. 
She thought • it wiser to be silent and to 
exercise patience. She never spoke of his 
love-affair ; but he guessed, he knew, that 
she thought of nothing else, that she thought 
of it unceasingly, and in his mother’s slightest 
words he suspected a double meaning or an 
allusion, and fancied he could detect a com- 
plaint or a sarcasm. 

There was one particularly painful moment 
in the day. It was in the evening, after din- 


Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder, 12 1 


ner, at the same hour when they had had their 
first explanation. Madame Bernard sat at her 
eternal tapestry, and without raising her eyes 
from her work she said to Armand, in a chok- 
ing voice, in which fear seemed mingled with 
entreaty : 

“ Are you going out ? " 

Most frequently he replied softly : 

“ No, mamma.” For he had arranged his 
meetings with Henriette at longer intervals 
than at first. He had summed up courage 
enough for that. He had accounted for this 
to his humble, lover, who accepted everything 
he told her and submitted to all his wishes. 
He said he had neglected his -law studies for 
some time past, for her sake, and that he must 
prepare for his examination. Madame Ber- 
nard, however, appeared to give her son no 
credit for this concession, which he thought 
very heroic, but simply seemed to take it for 
granted that he had his reasons for staying at 
home. 


122 


Henriette. 


In other respects, they had very little to say 
to one another, and merely exchanged a few 
words on subjects of no importance. It was 
an effort, almost amounting to suffering, to 
keep up this conversation from which all con- 
fidence was banished. 

At the end of a quarter of an hour, Armand 
would cut matters short by saying : 

^‘Good night, mamma, I am going to work.” 

She would offer him her stony cheek, and 
he would retire wearily to his room. 

But as Henriette was engaged all day at 
Madame Pamela’s, he could only see her in 
the evening ; and often when the dreaded 
question came : “ Are you going out ? ” he was 
obliged to reply : “Yes.” Then his mother 
would heave a sigh that crucified him, and 
he would go out knowing that he had left 
her solitary and broken-hearted, and feeling 
that he was an undutiful son. 

The poor boy was nothing worse than a 
lover. As soon as he arrived at the place of 


Absence Makes the Heart Graiv Fonder. 123 


meeting, as soon as he saw Henriette hurrying 
towards him under the arcades and smiling 
from afar, — the truth must be told, — all was 
forgotten. He no longer had any pleasure in 
life except the happy hours he spent with his 
little sweetheart. At first, not wishing to 
make her uneasy, he had not told her any- 
thing about his quarrel with his mother. But 
can two lovers who are really fond of one 
another keep a secret long ? One day, when 
Armand’s heart was too heavy, he confided all 
to Henriette. 

She was terrified. The struggle between 
her and Madame Bernard seemed too un- 
equal. She trembled when she recalled that 
stately mother, that handsome lady with the 
stern eyes, whom she had offended, after all, 
and who must have so many means of com- 
pelling her son’s obedience and vanquishing 
her, poor little thing. It was true, Armand 
assured her of his constancy and swore to 
love her forever, in spite of all obstacles. 


124 


Henriette. 


He never s’poke of his mother, nevertheless, 
without great affection and profound respect. 
She had always had great influence over 
him, and some day or other she was sure to 
prevail upon him to break off his love-affair. 
The very thought of such a thing made Hen- 
riette feel as if she should die. Not see Ar- 
mand any more ! Lose him altogether ! For 
her, that would be like extinguishing the sun ! 

She concealed her fears, however, and con- 
trolled herself so as always to show a cheerful 
face to her lover. He was so kind and affec- 
tionate that little by little she regained con- 
fidence. At last a decisive test — absence — 
enabled her to prove the strength of her hold 
upon Armand’s heart. 

It was the beginning of the month of Au- 
gust. The student had just got successfully 
through his second examination for the law, 
and the time had come when Madame Ber- 
nard and her son were to go, as they did every 
year, to spend three months at Les Trem- 


Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. 125 

bleaux, a fine property belonging to them in 
Mayenne. 

The two women looked forward anxiously 
to the time for this separation. The mother 
looked forward to it with hope, the mistress 
with alarm. 

Will he forget her ? ” thought one, in a 
moment of gloomy joy. 

“ Will he forget me ? ” said the other to her- 
self, with a sudden pang that swelled her heart 
almost to bursting. 

Armand had gently prepared Henriette for 
his departure. It was as cruel a trial for him 
as for his mistress to have to give up those 
happy evenings in their bower of love, and 
those delightful walks under the kindly light 
of starry nights. And oh, how long it seemed, 
this banishment ! But the dutiful son could 
not refuse to go with his mother ; and after a 
farewell meeting, at which the lovers exchanged 
the most ardent promises and shed a flood of 
tears, he was compelled to go. 


126 


Henriette. 


Oh ! how wearily the time passed for poor 
Henriette, and how miserable she was, left all 
alone in Paris in the dog-days, with nothing 
but empty streets, parched and broiling, and 
silent houses with the blinds drawn ! How 
monotonous and tedious the interminable day 
seemed, working in an atmosphere like a 
Russian bath, while the perspiring sewing-girls 
droned their stupid, hackneyed music-hall 
choruses ! The poor child had nothing to 
hurry for now, after the evening meal. No '* 
one was waiting for her under the arcades. 
Where was her “dear heart ” now ? What 
was he doing ? Was he thinking of her ? 
When she went home, she still took the long- 
est way round, the walk she always took on 
Armand’s arm — their walk. But it had lost 
all its charm. Formerly she saw so much 
beauty in the triumphal scene of the Place de 
la Concorde, glowing in the setting sun, the 
great river flowing under the sculptured arches, 
the vast esplanade overshadowed by the gigan- 


Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. 127 


tic gold casque of the Invalides ! Now this 
long walk was nothing but a weary trudge. 

Towards nightfall she passed the house 
where she had spent the only happy hours of 
her life. She waited a minute and raised her 
eyes to the closed shutters of their room. Ah ! 
the souls in purgatory must raise a look like 
that to the closed gates of paradise ! It 
seemed an eternity since Armand went away, 
and yet — yes, she counted the days on her 
fingers — -it was scarcely a week. When would 
they go up that dark staircase together again, 
with their arms round one another? When 
would they double-lock themselves again in 
the “ superior officer’s room,” as Armand used 
laughingly to call it, using the landlady’s 
expression ? When would she see the red 
velvet furniture again, with its crochet-work 
covers, or the clock-face with its gilt zinc 
finger pointing to the figures on a terres- 
trial globe ? When would she renew her ac- 
quaintance with the Eve of Austerlitz and the 


128 


Henrittte. 


Farewell at Fontainebleau^ in their fly-blown 
frames ? 

Then, when the gas-lamps began to loom 
through the growing darkness, she renewed 
her solitary walk. Sometimes a young officer 
in plain clothes, who had run up to Paris from 
the Military School on the chance of finding a 
sweetheart, would slacken his pace when he 
met the pretty dressmaker ; but when he saw 
her sorrowful eyes, he would pass on and aban- 
don all idea of an adventure. Then Henriette 
would go on her way through the deserted 
avenues, where the hot breath of the boister- 
ous wind was whirling round her the first dry 
leaves, the dead leaves that are a melancholy 
sign of the too precocious autumn of Paris. 

She would have pined away and ended by 
making herself ill with grief if she had not 
received a letter from Armand every week. 
He could not write to her at her lodgings, on 
account of her aunt. But every Sunday Hen- 
riette, who had no work to do on that day. 


Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. 129 


ran to the post-office in front of the Petit 
Luxembourg, to get her letter, her precious 
letter, and then hurried into the park to read 
it. Ah ! the shopmen who were out for their 
Sunday walk in that favorite resort might 
laugh as they pointed the pretty girl out to 
one another, absorbed in her reading. Hen- 
riette did not trouble her head about them. 
She walked slowly up and down under the 
chestnut-trees that had already shed half their 
.leaves, along the flower borders on the ter- 
race, past the marble statues of the queens, 
and read, and read, twenty times over, the 
four pages in which her absent darling had 
poured out all his love. It was the poor girl’s 
only support, her sacrament, this weekly let- 
ter, every word of which warmed and com- 
forted her heart. She carried it in her bosom 
all the week, and read it every night before 
she went to sleep. 

It was a serious business, however, having to 
answer it. From the Luxembourg she went 


9 


Henriette. 


130 


straight home, and in the afternoon, when her 
aunt was at vespers, she seated herself at a cor- 
ner of the dining-table, laid out her paper and 
a little bottle of ink, chose a new pen, wetted it 
between her lips, and then fell into a dream 
and could not think of anything to say. She 
was not so much ashamed of her bad writing 
and faulty spelling now, because Armand had 
told her over and over again that he liked 
them, that he liked everything that came from 
her ! But she never knew how to invent these 
graceful phrases, these delicate ways of saying 
“ I love you.” The first few lines of her reply 
were always awkward and constrained. But 
she was soon carried away by her feelings, and 
wrote to her lover as if he were there and she 
were speaking to him ; and then, letting her 
pen go its own way, she would unconsciously 
make the happiest choice of words, and often 
use the most striking images. For example : 
One day when she wished to reassure Armand, 
who had grown almost jealous in exile and 


Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. 13 1 


had asked her anxiously, “ Are you really and 
truly mine alone ? ” she replied with passionate 
eloquence : “ I am yours, my own loved one, 
as if I were a knife in your pocket, ready 
either to kill a man or to peel a pear, for your 
sake.” 

How happy she would have been if she had 
but known how Armand pined and suffered 
down there at Les Trembleaux, for want of 
her ! That faithful fellow too was counting 
the days and the hours. Entirely on account 
of Henriette, he kept to himself, and declined, 
whenever he could, to go to parties at the 
neighboring country-houses, where his mother 
wished him to appear. It was only from think- 
ing of his dear little sweetheart that he shut 
himself up in the antique library and walked up 
and down for hours before the dusty shelves, or 
sometimes spent the whole afternoon wander- 
ing under the solemn beech-trees in the great 
park. It was because Henriette was far away 
from him that he no longer had any liking 


132 


Henriette. 


for the beautiful landscape or the old home 
which, nevertheless, recalled to him the sweetest 
recollections of his childhood. It was because 
Henriette was not there, that the graceful 
chateau, with its architecture of the Renais- 
sance and its handsome fa9ade mirrored in the 
lake where the swans were, seemed to Armand 
as dark and dismal as a prison surrounded by 
a ditch. 

As for Madame Bernard des Vignes, she 
was as unhappy and worried as she could be. 
Armand was devoted in his attentions to her ; 
but she felt that he was thinking of his mistress 
all the while, that their separation had made 
no change in the state of his affections, that 
the enemy was not conquered. The jealous 
mother was in despair. Several times, when 
in conversation with her son, she tried to open 
that painful subject again, or at least to make 
some allusion to it. But Armand only turned 
red and lowered his eyes, and always took 
refuge in a respectful but gloomy silence. 


Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. 133 


September, however, had come and had 
filled the orchards with ripe fruit. The grapes 
had turned to gold on the vines. October had 
come with its morning mists. It had passed 
and gone. Already the trees were covered 
with yellow leaves. Then, at length came All 
Saints’ Day, and one morning the autumn rains 
set in, cold and pitiless. 

Madame Bernard had no longer any reasons 
to give her son for keeping him in the country. 
The lectures at the Law School were about to 
open again. There was nothing for it but to 
return to Paris and take up their abode again 
in the apartment on the Quai Malaquais. 

From the very day when they cam.e back, 
the bitter struggle was renewed. 

They had risen from table, and Madame 
Bernard had sat down to her tapestry. 

“ Are you going out ? ” 

“Yes, mamma.” 

Her son was still this Henriette’s lover ! 
Oh, how she hated her ! 



CHAPTER XI. 

IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 

But there is something else to think about 
besides love, now. Armand is ill, seriously 
ill ! Armand's life is in danger. 

He was seized six weeks after his return to 
Paris. Madame Bernard had a distinct recol- 
lection that, for some days before, he looked 
uneasy and excited. He began by complain- 
ing of headache and putting his hand to his 
forehead every moment, as if it were weighing 
him down. 

“ Why, what is the matter with you ? ” his 
mother had asked, getting frightened. “ You 
are flushed in the face. I don’t like that. It 
is not your natural color.” 

But he answered carelessly: “Bah! it will 


In the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 135 


soon pass away,” shook his curly hair, as if 
to drive away his pain, and, in spite of his 
mother’s repeated remarks on his condition, 
continued to go out in the evening to meet 
Henriette, — oh ! that girl ! — and this in the 
mud and wet, all through the foul' December 
weather. 

At last, one morning — the unhappy boy had 
not come home till after midnight — he rang 
for Louis, the footman, just before daybreak, 
and said to him, speaking with an effort : 

“ I have had a bad night. I am decidedly 
unwell. Go and bring my mother. I am 
thirsty. I am in a fever. Oh, how my head 
aches ! ” 

The moment she heard this, Madame Ber- 
nard hastily put on a dressing-gown and ran 
to her son’s bedside. His face was very much 
flushed, his forehead was burning, he was 
shivering under the bed-clothes, his teeth 
were chattering, and he was in a continual 
shudder. 


136 


Henriette. 


Typhoid fever ! Could it be the dreaded 
typhoid ? It was prevalent in Paris at the 
time, almost epidemic. Madame Bernard re- 
membered now that she had read that in the 
papers. Young people, moreover, were espe- 
cially liable to the disease, and it was most 
formidable for those who had exhausted their 
strength. Could it be that ? Oh, Lord God ! 
Could it be that ? 

Madame Bernard rang the bell frantically. 
The house was speedily awakened from top to 
bottom. 

“ Leontine ! she cried to the old house- 
keeper as she came in, buttoning her dress. 

Leontine ! Quick ! Jump into a cab ! Go 
for Doctor Forly ! Ask him to come this 
instant, without a moment’s delay ! ” 

There she remained powerless, not knowing 
what to do next, watching her son, who was 
burying his face in the pillows, and groaning 
with pain. 

At last, in about a quarter of an hour, Leon- 


In the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 137 


tine appeared, followed by the family doctor, 
whom she had fortunately caught just as he was 
getting into his carriage to go to his hospital. 

He was an old practitioner, with methodical 
ways belonging rather to a past period, who 
solemnly wrote at the head of his directions : 
“I advise,” and who never failed to end his 
prescriptions with the cabalistic letters M.S.A. 
(misce secundum Ur tern). But he was famous 
for the accuracy of his diagnosis and his un- 
erring medical judgment. 

He sat down by the bed while he slowly 
drew off his gloves, felt the invalid’s pulse, ex- 
amined him closely, asked him a few questions, 
and then rose and said with a cheerful voice : 

“ I have seen many similar cases. We shall 
come through it well enough.” 

But his hopeful words had a false ring ; and 
when he turned his head, Madame Bernard 
saw that he knitted his brows. 

She gasped, and led him into the next room. 

Oh ! horror ! It was indeed as she had 


Henriette. 


138 

feared ! It was typhoid fever ! The cautious 
old doctor was obliged to let Madame Ber- 
nard know the worst in the interest of the 
patient, so that no precautions might be neg- 
lected. He added, moreover, that the disease 
had declared itself with extreme violence. 
Then he wrote some prescriptions and prom- 
ised to call again in a few hours. 

During ten days — ten fearful, agonizing 
days ! — the fever increased and the patient 
grew weaker. The little thermometer that 
his mother put under his arm-pit every 
hour, — poor fellow ! the slightest movement 
exhausted him, — the merciless thermometer al- 
ways showed frightful degrees of temperature. 
Thirty-nine ! Forty ! Forty-one ! If it went 
any higher than that, it meant death ! Oh, 
these doctors are all a set of blockheads ! 
They cannot do anything ! Doctor Forly, in 
whom Madame Bernard had such confidence, 
is no better than the rest ! Suppose he made 
a mistake ! Suppose he were wanting in cau- 


In the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 139 


tion or did not take active enough measures ! 
The doctor came several times a day, and 
looked graver every time, and always ordered 
his eternal sulphate of quinine. Such enor- 
mous doses ! Suppose he gave too much, — 
or not enough ! Why does not Doctor Forly 
try this treatment by ice-baths that is so much 
talked about and that seems to have effected 
such miraculous cures ? Madame Bernard 
wished to see other doctors, to call in some of 
the most famous men in the profession, whose 
cures were celebrated. 

Three of them came at once, wrapped in 
heavy fur coats, in their comfortable car- 
riages ; and the distracted mother looked 
eagerly for the flash of genius in their weary 
eyes, in their solemn, learned-looking faces. 
She tried to gather confidence from the rib- 
bons in their button-hole, from their high- 
sounding titles of professor and academician, 
from their names that were known all over 
France. But as soon as they saw the patient. 


140 


Henriette. 


her watchful eyes detected in their face that 
slight compression of the lips, that almost 
imperceptible grimace which she had so often 
seen Doctor Forly make, and it froze the very 
marrow in her bones. The doctors passed 
gravely into the parlor to hold a consultation 
among themselves ; and behind the closed 
door the mother listened, stiff with anguish, 
to the confused murmur of their voices. 
Blessed Virgin ! If they would only tell her 
soon that Armand is not in such great danger 
— that they could answer for his life ! Ah ! 
what joy ! She would be ready to die. But 
no. They made their appearance again with 
their sphinx-like look, — their faces as blank 
as a wall. She could get nothing out of 
them but the usual phrases : “ We must wait 
a while. A favorable reaction may set in,” 
and a few cold words of hope. Misery of 
miseries ! Was her son going to die ? 

He was getting worse. She could see it 
herself. The delirious attacks were contin- 


In the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 14 1 


uous. In that overheated room, reeking of 
drugs, Madame Bernard spent all the twenty- 
four hours of the day. She kept awake by 
sheer terror, sitting at the head of the bed, 
which seemed to exhale a vapor of fever, and 
in which the sufferer tossed and groaned more 
and more feebly. The nights were the worst. 
Bowed down in her chair by weariness and 
grief, the poor woman sometimes tried to pray. 
Ever since she first saw that her son was in 
danger, the Corsican had found in the depths 
of her soul all the religious fanaticism in which 
she had been brought up as a child. Masses 
were said for Arm and every day at the Church 
of St. Thomas Aquinas, and L^ontine was kept 
ceaselessly running about Paris to have can- 
dles burnt at the shrine of particular saints 
and at all the altars that were supposed to 
have special powers of healing. But neither 
votive offerings nor nine days’ devotions had 
any effect ; and Madame Bernard, though at 
the same moment she was distractedly passing 


142 


Heiiriette. 


through her fingers a chaplet of beads that 
had been blessed by the Pope, felt her heart 
rising against Heaven with a paroxysm of re- 
volt and blasphemy. 

Sometimes, when the sufferer lay still for 
a while, there was a dense, deep silence in the 
dark room only lit by the pale flame of the 
tiny night-lamp. The only sound to be heard 
was the rapid ticking of the old Dresden clock 
on the mantel-piece ; Tic-tac, tic-tac, tic-tac, 
tic-tac. Madame Bernard listened mechani- 
cally. How fast the time was going ! How 
the panting seconds seemed to fly ! How 
they hurried on ! And toward what unknown 
goal ? Tic-tac, tic-tac, tic-tac, tic-tac. What 
fatal hour were they in such haste to reach ? 
Tic-tac, tic-tac, tic-tac. Who was waiting for 
them at the rendezvous towards which they 
were galloping at this furious pace.? Holy 
Saviour ! Could it be Death .? 

But suddenly Madame Bernard had risen. 
Her son had begun to make a slight move- 


In the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 143 


ment again. He had uttered a low, plaintive 
cry. She leaned over him anxiously, with a 
gesture as if she would spread her wings over 
him like a bird. 

“ How do you feel, my little Armand ? Are 
you thirsty, my precious pet ? Do you want 
anything ? Tell me, darling, — do tell me ! ” 

The sick man turned his sunken face, with 
his parched beard and his thin nostrils, and 
opened his eyes without seeing anything, — 
those great eyes that the fever had enlarged 
out of all proportion to his face. From the 
depth of his delirium, there came an indistinct 
murmur ; and, with a sigh that seemed to swell 
from his very heart in tenderness, he breathed 
a woman’s name : 

‘‘ Henriette ! ” 

Madame Bernard choked down a cry of 
rage. Henriette ! He still was thinking of 
that Henriette ! He saw her even in his 
delirious visions ! He called upon her in his 
agony ! But, if he died, it was she who would 


144 


Henriette. 


be the cause ! Yes, it was she, the vile, lust- 
ful woman, who had gained possession of this 
unhappy boy through his sensual passions, 
had led him astray, worn him out with guilty 
pleasure, and left him without strength, broken 
down, enfeebled, an easy prey to the passing 
pestilence ! The doctors said it was so. The 
disease had found in Armand only too favor- 
able a soil. He was already unnerved and 
exhausted when he took the fever. But for 
that, he would already be convalescent, out 
of danger, as good as cured. And she, his 
mother, — must she hear her dying son call for 
this Henriette ! Was it not enough to make 
her blood boil ! Oh, that cursed girl ! Oh, 
that strumpet who had murdered her boy ! 




CHAPTER XII. 

THE doorkeeper’s LODGE. 

The friends of the Bernard des Vignes 
family soon came to know of Armand’s illness. 
A large circle of Parisian society, the society 
of the Second Empire, among whom Madame 
Bernard was held in high esteem, were dis- 
tressed to hear the bad news, and hastened to 
express their sympathy. Every moment a 
carriage stopped in front of the house on the 
Quai Malaquais. The footman jumped nimbly 
from the box, went into the janitor’s room, 
asked after the patient, and left a card. 

The handsome house, dating from the last 
century, where the Bernards lived, was not 


lO 


146 


Henriette. 


provided, after the fashion of the present day, 
with an insolent ruler who reads the news- 
paper and warms his calves in a glazed parlor 
decorated with carved oak and cheap hang- 
ings. It was contented with an old-fashioned 
porter’s lodge, where, at the end of a recess, 
might be seen the red eiderdown quilt of a 
conjugal bed, and where, twice a day, the 
odors of culinary operations, of which onions 
certainly formed the base, made themselves un- 
pleasantly conspicuous. The janitress. Mother 
Renouf, was quite in keeping with the 
homely and patriarchal appearance of her 
abode. This stout dame was already past 
middle age. Her husband, a messenger in a 
government office, was only employed to wax 
the staircases every Saturday, so that she was 
almost always left alone to guard the house. 
In order to relieve the dulness of her seden- 
tary life, she kept several warbling families of 
canaries and goldfinches, which inhabited a 
number of cages hung on hooks near the 


The Doorkeeper' s Lodge. 


147 


front door in the daytime and placed on the 
top of the stove at night. 

When people came to inquire after Armand 
Bernard, no matter whether they -were masters 
or servants, Mother Renouf did not con- 
fine herself to communicating the doctor’s 
bulletin, as the haughty functionaries would 
have done who condescend to act as gentle- 
men’s gentlemen in the Avenue de I’Opera or 
the Boulevard Haussmann. But, being both 
talkative and tender-hearted, she improved on 
these dry documents by sundry remarks of her 
own, and expatiated, as old servants will, on 
Madame Bernard’s maternal anxieties and on 
the sufferings of the young and interesting 
invalid. 

Every evening, as soon as she got out of 
the shop, Henriette went to Madame Renouf’s 
lodge for news of Armand. 

The last time she had seen him he was 
already suffering a good deal, and he had left 
her very much concerned about him, promis- 


148 


Henriette. 


ing to write to her the next day. But one day 
passed and then another, without her seeing 
anything of the expected letter. She became 
so cruelly anxious that she plucked up courage 
and, all in a tremble, once more crossed the 
threshold of that house which she had such a 
dread of, — that house which contained the man 
whom she loved, and the woman who hated 
her. 

Henriette had not been there for six months. 
She hoped that no one would recognize her. 

But Mother Renouf had too good a memory, 
and as soon as she saw the sewing-girl she said: 

“Ah! is that you, Mam’zelle Henriette! 
What a stranger you are ! You have no doubt 
come to ask how Madame Bernard’s son is 
getting on ? Ah ! not too well, poor boy ! It 
seems it’s an unmistakable case of typhoid 
fever. — Oh, dear me ! What’s this ? Why, 
whatever is the matter with the girl ? You are 
as white as a sheet ! Oh, my God ! She’s 
going to be ill ! ” 


The Doorkeeper' s Lodge. 


149 


Henriette was, indeed, tottering under the 
blow. Mother Renouf made her sit down at 
once in her large easy-chair, — the chair where 
•she dozed of an evening, near the cord which 
led from the street entrance. The next thing 
was to look for her bottle of peppermint-water, 
and, not being able to find it, she began to 
lose her head. But the fainting girl let her 
forehead fall on the good woman’s shoulder, 
and, unable to contain her grief, burst into 
tears, exclaiming : 

“ Armand ! my poor Armand ! ” 

Ah ! Mother Renouf needed no fuller con- 
fession. She was puzzled for a moment ; but 
then she understood it all. The old woman 
had a kind heart, however ; no doubt, she had 
had her own love-affairs in her time. It gave 
her quite a turn to see this pretty young 
creature in such grief, and she did her best 
to restore her. 

“ What, Mam’zelle Henriette ! Monsieur 
Armand is your sweetheart ! Well, that is 


Henriette. 


150 . 


hard ! I am afraid you have made a great 
mistake there, my poor child. But that's not 
the question ; and, besides, you must not de- 
spair. He is very ill, it is true, but he has 
youth on his side. I would not mind betting 
he will get well. Come, come ! Cheer up ! 
Yes, yes, I know ! You feel such things very 
badly when you are in love. I have been 
through it myself ; for I can tell you I was not 
always an ugly old woman with nothing but 
a canary-bird to look after. What ! are you 
still crying ? Ah, well, let the tears flow. 
After all, that’s the only thing that does you 
any good, poor little one.” 

The motherly old creature was so distressed 
to see the young girl weeping, that she almost 
wept herself, and, taking the pretty, tearful 
face to her capacious bosom, she rocked her 
gently as if she were cradling a child. 

Mother Renouf, you were only an humble 
doorkeeper, and such a doorkeeper as would 
not be tolerated in a house that had any re- 


The Doorkeeper' s Lodge. 


151 


spect for itself. Your lodge reeked of onions 
and the close smell of your bird-cages. You 
were only a very coarse and very vulgar old 
woman, and the compassionate nose that you 
bent over Henriette was all smeared with snuff. 
But blessings be upon you, Mother Renouf ; for 
under your yellow-flowered calico gown there 
was something very rare and precious, which 
is commonly called a good and feeling heart. 
Thanks to you, this daughter of the people, 
this poor loving child, whose fault had been 
so pardonable, but to whom the harshness 
of social laws forbade the consolation of 
embracing her lover in his agony, was able 
to rest her heavy brows for a moment on a 
woman’s breast and feel the throb of maternal 
pity. 

Every evening after that, Henriette came to 
get news of Armand from Mother Renouf. 
She came after she had done her day’s work. 
For that is the way with the poor. Their 
heart may be full of grief or not, but they 


152 


Hem-iette. 


have to work all the same to earn their living. 
Through the mud and fog of the winter night 
she hurried under the arcades of the Rue de 
Rivoli and crossed the deserted space of the 
Carrousel; and those who saw her dainty figure 
in the glare of the electric light, tripping 
along with eager step and petticoats tucked 
up, might have supposed, alas ! that she was 
hastening to meet her sweetheart at the ren- 
dezvous. But as soon as she reached the 
Pont des Arts, Henriette slackened her pace. 
Down there, on the quay, at a well-known 
window, she could make out from afar a 
feeble light. It was there that her beloved 
one was wrestling with Death. Then she was 
overwhelmed by a sudden terror, and waited 
a while, to put off the moment when she should 
enter Mother Renouf’s lodge. The last news 
had been so fearful : Intense feverishness. 

The patient is in a very excited state.” Might 
not the next news be even more ominous and 
hopeless ? 


The Doorkeeper' s Lodge. 


153 


This lasted for eight days, and during all 
that time the poor girl lived in an atmosphere 
of terror. 

One of the work-people at Pamela’s, how- 
ever, who had had typhoid fever, and whom 
Henriette questioned about the dreadful dis- 
ease, told her that after the ninth day the 
danger of death, if not actually removed, is 
greatly diminishecj. It is a popular delusion, 
but Henriette’s fond hopes accepted it rap- 
turously. She believed — she was only too 
anxious to believe — that Armand’s youth would 
bring him victoriously out of the struggle, that 
he would recover, that he was already better. 
That evening she ran with a firmer step to the 
Quai Malaquais, and she almost had a feeling 
of confidence as she turned the handle of the 
lodge-door. 

Great God ! On the round table, beside 
the heap of visiting-cards, she did not see the 
sheet of paper, the doctor’s bulletin the very 
sight of which used to fill her with dread, but 


154 


Henriette. 


which she used to rush to, nevertheless, with 
such eager eyes ! Mother Renouf rose from 
her big chair with a broken-hearted look in her 
honest face, bent down her head and began 
to cry. Ah ! It was all over ! Armand was 
dead ! 

Yes, Armand was dead ! An invisible fin- 
ger had beckoned him from among the crowd 
of human beings. A mysterious breath had 
passed over him. And that bright spirit, that 
heart burning with love, those dark eyes 
where the shadow of such sweet and lovely 
thoughts had flitted, that temple of youth 
and manly beauty, that flame of noble aspira- 
tions, — all, all had passed away in a moment, 
as in the dark azure of a September night a 
star falls, and goes out ! Armand was dead ! 

In a couple of days his young friends 
from the schools would be assembled round 
his grave. Theodore Vernier — sincere in his 
poetry this time — would read a few pathetic 
verses conveying a touching farewell. Then 


The Doorkeeper' s Lodge. 


155 


the students would disperse by the wet, leaf- 
less avenues of the cemetery, plunged in that 
ephemeral grief of which youth alone is capa- 
ble. And after that they would return to 
their work or their pleasure, and the memory 
of their comrade who was gone would vanish 
little by little-from their mind. 

Armand was dead ! Near the Invalides, 
there would soon be seen a yellow placard on 
the door of a furnished house. A few days 
later, — the ‘‘ superior officer’s room ” would 
return to its normal destination and be en- 
cumbered in every corner with regulation 
sabres and pairs of boots with spurs fixed 
in the heels. And the dull looking-glass, 
before which Henriette used to put on her 
bonnet before leaving, whilst Armand would 
surprise her with a last kiss on the back of 
her neck, — the green and wrinkled looking- 
glass would never again reflect a trace of 
those two charming faces. 

Armand was dead ! Away over there, be- 


Henriette. 


156 


yond the seas and the continents, away in 
the farthest East, General de Voris, sitting in 
his bamboo hut, would receive, a few weeks 
later, the obituary notice, spotted with post- 
marks and yellow with the smoke of quaran- 
tine ; and he would reflect, with bitter sad- 
ness, that the only woman he had ever loved, 
had sacrificed him to this child who was not 
destined to live. 

Armand was dead ! Beside the pillow, — 
where rested his weary head, his pale face, to 
which, a few hours after his last sigh, there 
had come back a serene and youthful beauty, — 
his mother, surrounded by women in mourn- 
ing, — his mother, frightful to look at, writhed 
in her tragic grief and uttered cries like a 
wild beast in its death-throes, like the inar- 
ticulate baying of Hecuba. 

Below, in the porter’s lodge, on the bed 
from which the red eiderdown quilt had been 
removed, — Henriette lay stretched at full 
length, with her dress open at the neck, and 




The Doorkeeper's Lodge. 157 


her face wet with tears. She had swooned 
twice in Mother Renouf s arms, and that good 
soul was bathing her temples with vinegar, 
and singing to her as if she had been a sick 
child. 




CHAPTER XIII. 

RIVALRY AT THE GRAVE. 

After Armand’s death, there was a veri- 
table conspiracy of pity amongst all who knew 
Madame Bernard des Vignes, in order to pre- 
vent the unhappy mother from being alone 
with her despair, and in order to keep her 
surrounded by friends and provided with dis- 
tractions. It was then that she reaped the 
reward of her dignified and spotless life, find- 
ing real friends in people whom she had only 
supposed to be worldly acquaintances, and dis- 
covering deep and genuine qualities in women 
whom, until then, she had thought altogether 
superficial. The solitude in which she had 



Rivalry at the Grave. 


159 


resolved at first to bury herself, yielding to a 
fierce impulse of pride and misery, was gently 
invaded by the kindly attentions of her friends, 
who found a way to speak to her of her loss 
without reopening her wounds. More humble 
since this great grief had felled her, she appre- 
ciated the sweetness of sympathy, the relief of 
feeling friendly hands placed on hers, of laying 
her head to rest on the shoulder of a tender- 
hearted confidante. If they could not console 
her, at least they calmed her and made her life 
less insupportable. 

She would not allow Armand’s body to be 
removed into the country and buried beside 
his father. She still had relations at Paris ; 
and it was at Paris that, during his illness, 
she had felt a warm current of friendship and 
affection circulating round her. It was there, 
too, that she was to pass her life thencefor- 
ward, since she must live on ; and she was 
determined not to be separated from her- dear 
child’s grave. 


i6o 


Henriette. 


She had a very plain tomb built for him in 
the cemetery of Montparnasse, but was so 
broken-down with grief and exhaustion for a 
long time that she was unable to supervise 
the work herself ; and when, six weeks after 
Armand’s death, his coffin was moved from 
the temporary cell to his final resting-place, 
Madame Bernard had not yet sufficient strength 
or courage to be present at the melancholy 
ceremony. 

On the following Sunday, however, finding 
herself a little stronger, she wished to go and 
pray for the first time at her son’s tomb, and, 
having heard mass at St. Thomas Aquinas, 
she got into her carriage, which was filled with 
bouquets and wreaths, and drove to the ceme- 
tery. She was so anxious to make this pil- 
grimage quite alone that she even declined to 
allow old Leontine to accompany her. Hav- 
ing ascertained the exact situation of the 
monument, she got out of her carriage, went 
into the cemetery, veiled in black from head 


Rivalry at the Grave. 


i6i 


to foot, with her hands laden with tributes of 
grief, looked about her for the right path, and, 
having passed several rows of tombs, read 
from a distance — ah ! with what wringing of 
the heart ! — the name of Armand Bernard cut 
in the fresh stone. 

But all at once she stopped short. Her 
shoulders, which had been bent with grief, 
suddenly straightened themselves, and in her 
eyes, hollow from weeping, there sprang up a 
flash of anger. 

Some one had been there before her. Her 
flowers were not the first offering ! 

Already there lay on Armand’s tomb a little 
bunch of violets such as you may buy in the 
streets for a penny, and they could not have 
been there long, because the humble flowers 
were still quite fresh in their frill of ivy-leaves. 

Madame Bernard des Vignes could not have 
a moment’s doubt. They came from that 
Henriette I 

Since Armand’s death, the unhappy mother 


i 62 


Henriette. 


had done all she possibly could to avoid think- 
ing of her son’s mistress. 

She wished to cherish only the image of 
him in his purity, to recall him only as he 
was when adorned by chastity and innocence. 
The last six months of Armand’s life, his con- 
nection with a girl unworthy of him, the strug- 
gle which he had had with his mother on 
account of this Henriette, this act of sensual 
folly, — for she would have it that it was nothing 
more, — all that soiled and tarnished his mem- 
ory, and was far too painful to think of now 
that he was gone. She wished to shut it out 
from her thoughts as if it had never taken 
place, and she had almost succeeded in doing 
so. Yet here was this hateful, shameful past, 
rising up before her again ! 

That wretched girl, whose embraces had 
perhaps been actually fatal to Armand, dared 
to lay flowers on his tomb. And by what 
right ? What claim had she on his memory ? 
Because she had loved him ? Was that worthy 


Rivalry at the Grave. 


163 


of being called love, the ungoverned passion 
of a street girl in spring-time ? Because she 
still loved him ? No such thing. The senti- 
mentalism of a flirt, who would think no more 
about him in a month or a fortnight, but who 
would console herself with another lover I No, 
no, she could not bear it ! She, his mother, 
with her heart pierced by the seven swords of 
suffering ! — how could she allow this bunch of 
flowers to lie beside her own ? She would not 
have the tribute of a courtesan, who had come 
there full of impure memories and scarcely 
able to make a pretence of weeping, to sully 
that stone which she, his mother, was ap- 
proaching with her heart riven by sobs and 
prayers ! Away with her obscene flowers ! 

‘ Away with them to the dunghill or the rubbish 
heap ! 

Madame Bernard leaned down to throw the 
flowers away, but she did not carry out her 
intention. 

To despoil a grave ! It was little short of 


164 


Henriette. 


sacrilege ! - If her son saw her ! Alas ! tl>is 
humble offering was very sweet, perhaps, to 
him who was sleeping there forever. Who 
could tell but that the first flowers which had 
beautified his sepulchre were not dearer to 
him than those his sorrowing mother had 
brought ? Ah ! it was a cruel thought ! 

But Madame Bernard remembered now that 
she had come there to pray. She reproached 
herself for having given way to her vindictive 
feelings in such a place. She fell on her 
knees, and made the sign of the cross. Yes, 
the hour had come for all forgiveness. Yes, 
when she thought of her poor dead son, she 
could remember nothing but that he had been 
for twenty years her consolation, her pride, 
her joy. Yes, she ought to have had more 
mercy for this young girl, who, after all, per* 
haps, had loved her Armand sincerely, and 
who, in any case, had not yet forgotten him, 
since she had faithfully laid these flowers 
there. 


Rivalry at the Grave. 


i6s 


When Madame Bernard, after remaining long 
in prayer, rose to go, and cast a last, long, lin- 
gering look at the grave, Henriette’s bouquet 
was still in its place. 

After that, Madame Bernard went every 
Sunday to the cemetery, and every time she 
had proof that Henriette had brought her per- 
fumed souvenir there since the morning. 

Time slipped away. With the seasons, the 
flowers changed ; but they were always the 
common sorts that are sold from little hand- 
carts beside the pavement in the poorest quar- 
ters of the city. The violets were succeeded 
by handfuls of wall-flowers, branches of lilac, 
bunches of roses. Before such constancy, 
Madame Bernard gradually laid aside her 
hatred. Was this Henriette’s feeling stronger 
and more lasting than she had supposed, 
then ? Why not ? Armand was so lovable, so 
attractive ! In her sorrow for her dead son, 
the mother became more lenient towards her 
he had loved. If some day she had met the 


i66 


Henriette. 


young girl, perhaps she would have thrown her- 
self into her arms and treated her as an equal 
in grief. However, at each change of flowers, 
Madame Bernard experienced a strange feel- 
ing of uneasiness. She was always jealous of 
Henriette, jealous of her fidelity and of her 
grief, and in her sorrow she was still her rival. 

The friends who had formed themselves 
into a league round Madame Bernard, how- 
ever, continued their work. After long per- 
suasion, they had prevailed on her to lead a 
less retired and unsociable life. Yielding to 
their patient and kindly solicitations, she had 
consented to see some company at her own 
house, to pay a few visits, and even to be 
present sometimes at very select parties. 

A year had already passed since Arrnand 
was no more. The flowers that Henriette 
brought were chrysanthemums now, and Ma- 
dame Bernard often found them powdered 
with snow. A grief such as this poor mother’s 
could not be consoled ; but, thanks to time, it 


Rivalry at the Grave. 


167 


became less acute, less violent. This grief, 
which could not but be eternal, was, neverthe- 
less, not continual. 

“ To forget ! to forget ! is the secret of life /” 

as Lamartine has said in an admirable line, 
which expresses a bitter truth. Certainly, Ma- 
dame Bernard did not forget ; but at least she 
lived. 

A few weeks after the celebration of the 
mass for the repose of Armand’s soul, at the 
close of the year since his death, — oh ! that day, 
what torturing recollections, what a reopen- 
ing of wounds ! — Madame Bernard learnt that 
General de Voris had returned from Tonkin. 

He had written her an exquisite letter, full 
of tact and fine feeling, on the occasion of 
Armand’s death ; but she had heard nothing 
from him since, and on returning to Paris he 
contented himself with leaving a card at Ma- 
dame Bernard’s house. 

But the latter soon noticed that several of 


i68 


Henriette. 


her friends mentioned Monsieur de Voris’ 
name very often in her presence, and she 
quickly guessed with what intention. The 
general loved her still. She felt it. She was 
sure of it. Had he not perhaps returned to 
France in order to approach her again ? He 
knew she was alone in the world. He must 
have said to himself that now, perhaps, she 
would accept him for a comforter and a hus- 
band, and he had doubtless won over to his 
cause some of the ladies in the circle who 
surrounded her. 

To marry again ! To begin life afresh ! 
The poor woman hardly thought that was 
possible. However, how could she help being 
touched by this firm and unchangeable devo- 
tion, which nothing had sufficed to tire out, 
and which, though without any hope, had 
stood the test of time and* absence ? Yes, 
there had been a time when she had a tender 
feeling for Monsieur de Voris. Alas ! What 
could she offer him now in exchange for his 


Rivalry at the Grave. 


169 


deep and faithful attachment ? Nothing, ex- 
cept* a broken heart. But it is with fragments 
that nests are made. 

Tl^ty-nine years ! She was almost an old 
woman ! What was she dreaming about, then ? 

Perhaps she had looked in the glass. Ah ! 
she had wept too much, and her eyelids were 
somewhat wrinkled. She was still a good deal 
like her portrait painted by Dubufe, however, 
— her portrait when she was twenty. There was 
in that mirror something better than a phan- 
tom of the lovely Bianca Antonini, the young 
Diana of the Imperial hunt at Compiegne. 
The marble of her complexion had become a 
little sallow. A few white threads ran through 
her masses of black hair. But she had pre- 
served her pure, proud features, her gracefully 
rounded bosom, her shoulders made for the 
royal ermine. 

Still beautiful ! ” she sighed, with a gentle 
sadness. 

Ah! folly! folly! 


Henriette. 


170 


That very day, the old Duchess of Fried- 
land, formerly lady-in-waiting to the Empress, 
an excellent woman, who had shown quite a 
maternal interest in Madame Bernard ^-ely, 
came to see her and invited her to take tea at 
her house to meet a very small company of 
friends. 

“You will find an old acquaintance of yours 
therOj my dear, — General de Voris.” 

To accept such an invitation meant, for a 
woman of Madame Bernard’s character, to 
give the general encouragement, — almost to 
engage herself to him. She excused herself, 
under some pretext or other ; but she remained 
very uneasy in her mind. 

Why, then, had she refused ? This mar- 
riage, which in all other respects would be 
most suitable, presented nothing to her mind 
but what was sweet and comforting. She 
had thought a good deal about it, and very 
seriously too. When she questioned her in- 
most heart, it pleaded for Monsieur de Voris. 


4 ^ 


Rivalry at the Grave. 17 1 

She had already asked herself: ‘‘Why not?” 
She was on the point of replying: “Yes.” 
What was it that checked her on the threshold 
of that refuge where, after so much suffering, 
she still might enjoy a little happy rest ? 
What made her hesitate ? 

Almost nothing. It was the little bunch of 
violets which she had again found, the Sunday 
before, on Armand’s tomb. 

Undoubtedly she had the right to marry, 
without being unfaithful to her son’s memory. 
Monsieur de Voris, whose nature she knew 
well, would respect and encourage her devo- 
tion to her son’s spirit. But never mind ! So 
long as Henriette brought flowers to the 
cemetery, Madame Bernard would remain a 
widow. In this rivalry of grief and constancy, 
she was determined she would not be van- 
quished. 

But on the following Sunday, there, was 
nothing on the tombstone but the violets of 
the Sunday before, all black and withered. 


\ 


172 


Henriette. 


Henriette had not come to renew her bou- 
quet. 

Ah', what a cynical and malicious pleasure 
Madame Bernard felt in her heart ! It was 
just what she had expected. Armand’s mis- 
tress had begun to neglect him. She had 
found a way of consoling herself. Yes, yes. 
It is only mothers who never forget. 

She was careful, nevertheless, not to jump 
too hastily to a conclusion. Henriette might 
have been prevented from coming, or she 
might be absent or ill. It would be better to 
wait. 

But one, two, three Sundays followed, and 
yet there was nothing, nothing, always nothing. 

Then there was triumph for Madame Ber- 
nard. Yes ! a hundred times yes ! her first 
impulse ’had been the right one. Her repug- 
nance to those impure flowers was a legitimate 
feeling. Armand ! Armand ! Your mother 
alone loved you truly ! She might possibly, 
towards the close of her life, in her declining 


Rivalry at the Grave. 


173 


years, lean on the arm of an old friend, a man 
of honor. But that need not disturb her dear 
child’s rest. His grave would always be in his 
mother’s heart and would always occupy the 
chief place there. Whilst, as for that girl I — 
See, her remembrance was at an end already. 
No doubt, she had found another lover. Ah! 
the poor dead boy could only depend upon his 
mother to keep the place of his eternal sleep 
fragrant. His Henriette would come no more 
to the cemetery. She had already forgotten 
the way there. 

The Duchess of Friedland soon called again 
on Madame Bernard des Vignes, and said to 
her : 

“ You must be offended with me, my dear. 
Have you made up your mind not to come 
to my house ? I wish so much to have you 
to five-o’clock tea, some Wednesday. General 
de Voris is so good ; he never fails to come, 
and he makes us shudder with his stories 
about the Red River pirates.” 


174 


Henriette, 


The widow, released from her last scruple, 
replied with a slight beating of the heart : 

“There is no feeling on my part, I can 
assure you, dear Duchess. You may rely 
upon my coming next Wednesday.” 




CHAPTER XIV. 

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 

Ak ! What a glorious day ! What a perfect 
morning ! 

Under the splendor of a bright blue sky, 
the landscape of the Parisian quays has a 
wonderful air of youth and freshness. At the 
cab-stand, where the sun made the varnished 
leather of the carriages shine like metal, the 
clock of the kiosk was striking twelve, and it 
was the first of June. - It was the finest hour 
of the day and the finest season of the year. 
The Seine, with its green waves, seemed to 
flow faster and more merrily than usual that 
day. The foot-passengers stopped before the 
second-hand book-stalls, enjoying the pleasant 
warmth upon their back ; and on the Pont des 


176 


Henriette. 


Arts, one of the oldest Members of the Insti- 
tute caught himself humming a couplet of 
Desangiers, which a pretty girl in high-heeled 
shoes and leg-of-mutton sleeves had sung to 
him in a little room at the Rocher de Can- 
cale” in the reign of Charles X. Undoubtedly 
we felt young again. There was a pleasure 
in living in such weather. 

In her boudoir, where the fresh air and the 
gay sunshine came freely through the open 
window, Madame Bernard des Vignes — yes ! 
she herself — experienced the intoxicating etfect 
of that lovely day. 

She was to be married on the next day but 
one, — the next day but one, she was to lay 
aside her mourning ; and on the sofa, in an 
open box, there was the bonnet which she was 
to wear at the ceremony. Presently the mil- 
liner presented it to her, poised on her fist, 
while she said in her most persuasive sales- 
woman’s tone : 

“ See, Madame, it is exactly as you wished. 


Faithful unto Death, 


177 


Something rather subdued. No trimming, ex- 
cept this little branch of lilac.” 

When she tried the bonnet on before her 
glass, Madame Bernard thought it was in 
charming taste and that it became her to 
perfection, — and she smiled. 

Yes ! she smiled. For she had once more 
learned to smile. She was loved. She had be- 
come a woman again. She wished to please. 
One day she had found herself alone with 
Monsieur de Voris. He had proposed to her ; 
and when she gave him a look that meant 
consent, she had seen the heroic soldier of 
the campaigns of Metz and Tonkin fall on his 
knees, speechless and overcome with happi- 
ness, and weep on her hands like a child. To 
love again ! Was she capable of it ? At least 
she was sure of being loved dearly. Oh, how 
she would enjoy the rest and relaxation of this 
new world of affection ! And then, it was so 
sweet to make another happy ! 

No ! Armand was not forgotten, and he 


178 


Henriette. 


never would be. Two days later, — Madame 
Bernard, kneeling beside her new husband, 
would think of her son and would pray for 
her son. And yet, yet ! Her old feeling of 
despair had long since passed away. The 
deep sorrow which had followed it had been 
dissolved and had evaporated in a milder 
melancholy. 

No ! Armand was not forgotten. Still, the 
wound had closed and healed. She suffered 
less, — she who had once been inconsolable ; 
and just now — ah ! poor human nature ! — she 
had smiled at her wedding-bonnet, at a pretty 
bit of millinery. 

But a servant came into the boudoir with a 
letter on a salver. 

It was a strange handwriting. Madame 
Bernard tore open the envelope. Four pages. 
Whom could this long letter be from ? She 
looked at the signature, Henriette Perrin,” 
and this is what she read with a shudder 
that passed all over her body ; 


Faithful unto Death. 


179 


“ Paris, Hospital Necker, 2.%th May . - 

“ Madame: 

“lam very ill in the Hospital Necker, and I am so 
weak that I cannot hold a pen. A patient in the same 
ward who is recovering is kind enough to write from 
my dictation ; and when I am dead, only when I am 
dead, — but that will not be long, — she will manage to 
get this letter to you. 

“ I cannot go away without having asked your for- 
giveness for the pain I have caused you. I learned 
from Armand how angry you were with me, and how dis- 
pleased with my relations with him. I confess my faults. 
You admitted me to your house, and were very good 
to me, and in becoming Arman d’s lover I seemed to 
have abused your confidence. I can understand your 
being offended with me and thinking very badly of me. 
However, I hope that you will have pity on me and 
will forgive me when you receive this letter ; for then I 
shall be dead from grief. The doctors say it is disease 
of the liver. But ever since the death of my beloved 
Armand I felt that I was dying, and that is the truth. 

“ Madame, no one tells lies at the point of death. 
You must believe me. I swear to you that Armand 
was my first and only lover. I loved him 'from the 
first, like a poor, fond fool as I was, as much as it is 
possible to love anybody. But I did not try to entice 
hiiu, I assure you ; and I am still astonished that he 
cared for me, — that he did not blush to have such a 
simple and ignorant girl as I am for his lover. Be 


i8o 


Hefiriette. 


lenient, Madame, Think how very young we both 
were ! 

“ I'well knew that it could not last long, that young 
men of good family must marry some one of their own 
rank, and that sooner or later you would persuade your 
son to leave me. But I was resigned to that beforehand ; 
and you may be very sure that she whom Armand had 
once loved would not have become a low woman. Yes, 
I should have known how to live, all alone in my corner, 
with the sweet recollection of my happiness, consoling 
myself with the thought that Armand was happy, — he, 
at least, with a beautiful wife and children. But that 
he should die at twenty, within a few days, and that I 
should not even be able to embrace him for the last 
time, — that was more than I was abl^ to bear. 

“ When I learnt that in your doorkeeper’s lodge, I 
received the blow which has killed me. Ever since that 
awful day I have had as if it were ice round my heart. 
I began to feel ill directly afterwards, and then, two 
months after Armand, my dear old aunt was taken in 
her turn, and I was left all alone. T went on working, 
— I was obliged to, — but only like a machine, and I 
went for hours and days without speaking a word to 
anybody, while my grief was gnawing my heart. My 
only comfort was to go every Sunday' morning to carry 
flowers to Armand’s tomb. And, whilst on that. I beg 
to thank you, Madame, for leaving my little bouquets 
beside yours. That is what made me hope that you 
might be a little less angry with me, and that already you 
might almost have forgiven me. At last I felt very ill 


Faithful unto Death. 


i8i 


indeed. I could no longer work, and, having no money, 
I was obliged to come to the hospital. But if you knew 
what I suffered the first Sunday that I spent here, think- 
ing to myself that you would only find there my faded 
bouquet of the previous Sunday, and that you would 
think I had forgotten my Armand ! That is why I 
have written to you, that you might know that I died 
with his name on my lips. 

“ Madame, I confessed myself yesterday. The per-' 
son to whom I am dictating this letter is a religious 
woman, and she asked me to see a priest. Since my 
first communion I had never been to church, and I was 
rather afraid of priests. But the one who came to me 
spoke very kindly, and told me that my sins would be for- 
given. You will be as kind as he was, will you not? You 
will no longer hate me for having loved your son so much.’ 

“ Adieu, Madame. If I dared to address one more 
prayer to you, I would ask you, when you go to Mont- 
parnasse, to buy a little bunch of the flowers that are in 
season, at the cemetery-gate, as I used to do, — a penny 
bunch, no more, — and put them on Armand’s tomb, 
with your own. The priest told me for certain that 
we shall meet again in heaven those whom we have 
loved. But who knows ? It seems to me that, all the 
same, poor Armand. lying there in his coffin, will be 
glad to receive his little lover’s souvenir. You will be 
very generous, Madame, if you will kindly do that and 
gratify the last wish of 

“ Your very respectful and most humble servant, 

“ Henriette Perrin.” 


i 82 


Hefiriette. 


Madame Bernard des Vignes burst into tears 
when she finished reading this letter. How 
dull it had become, all of a sudden, — that 
June sun ! How gloomy that spring morning 
was ! And there, on the sofa, in the open 
box, was the pretty bonnet with its spray of 
lilac ! It made her sick to look at it then, — 
the fair lady who was to be married on the 
morrow ! She felt ashamed of it ! 

Assuredly, she had forgiven and she would 
forgive again ! Assuredly, she would fulfil 
the wish of the dead ! But gazing at the 
signature of Henriette Perrin, — the only two 
words the poor girl had been able to trace with 
her dying hand, — Armand's mother murmured 
in a low voice, in a voice of defeat, and with 
a paroxysm of bitterness and jealousy : 

“ She loved him better than I did.” 


THE END. 












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